


Circus of Feathers

by kj_graham



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe: No Hunting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Evil Crowley, Fallen Angel Castiel, Fever, First Kiss, Getting Together, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pining, Slow Burn, Stanford AU, Stanford Student Sam Winchester, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 37,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26708812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kj_graham/pseuds/kj_graham
Summary: Castiel has been held captive as a fallen angel in Crowley's circus for nearly two centuries. Enter Sam Winchester, a young Stanford student, who stumbles across Castiel and smuggles him out of the circus. Castiel needs his wings, his Grace is fading, and Sam will do anything he can to help. Nothing ever goes as planned, though...
Relationships: Castiel/Sam Winchester, Real Tyson Brady/Sam Winchester
Comments: 27
Kudos: 35
Collections: Sastiel Big Bang 2020





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> I am so, so, so beyond excited to finally post this fic. This has been a labor of love, blood, and tears since March, and I am more than overjoyed that it's done and here for the world to see. 
> 
> First things first, though: Finn, thank you so much for your absolutely stunning art and thank you for helping make my first bang such an awesome experience. Meghan, thank you for betaing, giving me extremely helpful feedback, and hearing out all of my rambling about one part of this fic or another, and, of course, all of my grumbling about deadlines. Triss and Klove, thank you for betaing as well--your feedback helped me shape this fic and especially the climax into something I'm much more happy with. And thank you to the SBB mods for being so lovely and helping me out.
> 
> Enjoy!! And everyone go check out Finn's art and give him love for it: https://finniigan.tumblr.com/post/630625183799148544/my-fanarts-for-kjgrahams-wonderful-story-circus
> 
> \- Key

Castiel hates the way Crowley prowls around the circus. His walk is almost predatory; like he’s constantly stalking his next unlucky victim to manipulate into this scam or that one, or perhaps another being he wants to lock into a cage.

Lucifer is worse, in a way. Crowley’s facial expression never looks quite as predatory as the way he walks, but Lucifer’s face is always drawn into a wolfish smirk. It makes Castiel uneasy.

Of course, most of his coworkers make him uneasy, if they can even be called his coworkers. The roster is constantly changing; he has been here far longer than any of them, and it’s sometimes hard to keep track of them all.

Castiel knows, of course, about the big hitters. Crowley, who has been here as long as Castiel. Longer. Michael and Lucifer, Crowley’s right hand men, who stay mostly behind the scenes, but Castiel dislikes them all the same.

Then there are the workers of the circus Castiel knows he’d steer clear of if he could. Abaddon, the extraordinary contortionist. Gadreel, the lion tamer, who Castiel thinks hasn’t said an honest word in his entire life. Alastair and Azazel, a pair of fire and sword eaters who are so sleazy Castiel shivers to think of what they do in their downtime.

Metatron, the most annoying carnie, who pesters Castiel for hours on end with no reprieve instead of selling tickets like he’s supposed to, and Dick Roman, the man supposedly in charge of marketing the circus, who mainly hangs around in a cheesy suit, smoking cigarettes and leering after visitors.

Were Castiel any other worker, he would have quit this job a long time ago.

But Castiel doesn’t get paid; Castiel isn’t a circus employee. He’s a captive.

Maybe the rest of them are unaware of it. Maybe they don’t want to invoke Crowley, Michael, or Lucifer’s wrath. But a voluntary worker doesn’t lock himself into a glorified cage just to make a measly few dollars.

Castiel has no concept of money, anyway. He suspects Crowley only has a limited idea, as well, seeing as most of the money work is left to Michael and Roman.

Castiel didn’t need money in Heaven. Castiel didn’t spend his endless days getting gawked at by children and adults that are far, far too gullible.

Castiel hates his gaudy sign outside his booth. The booth has a door that locks from the outside, has no handle on the inside. He sits inside behind an invisible barrier of holy oil, behind ornate bars made of iron. They’re a cage, but they’re pretty enough to pass as nothing but a divider; at night, he’s locked in this whole mess and a fresh circle of holy oil is laid around it.

That’s all well and good for a ringleader as paranoid as Crowley, but they both know Castiel can’t do any more to leave than the average human.

The sign outside proclaims an “angel, fallen from the heavens! See his wings, listen to his ancient tongue!” but the reality is that the wings on display for all these staring humans are not his. His wings weren’t white and dumb and cherubic. His wings were big, long. His feathers gleam black and blue.

Castiel’s wings are on the circus grounds, but they were cruelly carved from his back a long time ago.

He assumes they’re somewhere private to Crowley. After all, Crowley was the one to take them in the first place.

Castiel doesn’t have his wings. Castiel has given up his voice. After years of yelling in outrage, and then in desperation, to be released, in English, in Latin, in Enochian, in any and every language known to man, and getting no response other than Crowley’s clear glee at having such a fighting angel, Castiel went quiet.

So that’s two things on his sign that are wrong. He won’t speak to anyone anymore.

* * *

Metatron is in Castiel’s booth again. Castiel struggles not to react at all as Metatron speaks, his voice grating, rambling, and annoying. He’s asking Castiel for stories from Heaven. When Castiel doesn’t answer, Metatron goes on to say he’s “going to extrapolate here” and begins spitballing ideas for what Heaven is like. As usual, they’re things that are blatantly false and frankly just stupid, things Metatron uses to try to get under Castiel’s skin enough to make him talk.

Today, like most days, Castiel just sits with his knees up to his chest and his chin resting on his knees, staring at the wall and steadfastly ignoring Metatron’s entire existence. Right now he’s fantasizing about smiting him, actually. Then he wouldn’t have to hear his voice anymore.

Metatron is still going after another ten minutes. Castiel is only saved by someone else entering the booth. He glances over.

Gabriel is hovering in the doorway, looking at Metatron with clear distaste. The acrobat-slash-trapeze artist meets Castiel’s eye and gives him a hearty wink. He fluffs his caramel hair up with one hand and signs, ‘Watch this,’ with the other as he clears his throat.

Metatron jumps and whirls around. His shoulders sag at the sight of Gabriel.

“Metatron,” Gabriel says. “Aren’t you supposed to be at your ticket booth, where people are waiting and a very annoyed Michael has taken your place?”

Metatron sputters, going pale. He rushes past Gabriel, out of the dimly lit booth and into the bustle of the circus grounds.

Gabriel breaks into giggles as he steps inside. “I swear,” he says, “the Michael thing gets him every time. Never gets old. Can’t wait for the day Michael is _actually_ in the ticket booth; I’ll need popcorn for that one.”

Castiel doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t focus so hard on the wall anymore.

Gabriel sits on the ground with a sigh. He’s leaning against the wall, but one leg is close enough to be resting against the iron bars.

“How’s it going, Cassie?” Gabriel asks. Castiel is introduced to everyone who begins work at the circus as a formality to keep up appearances; this is the only way Gabriel knows his name, though he comes up with various nicknames on his own.

Castiel does not answer. Gabriel takes this in stride, nodding along as if he’s listening to a “good, how are you?”

“I was out with Balthazar last night,” he says. Castiel has heard the name before, but doesn’t know a Balthazar in the circus. “And, oh man, Cassie, you shoulda seen these women. Beautiful, absolutely stunning. I—well, maybe you don’t want to hear the details. But it was quite some fun. They even called me ‘the candy man’.”

Castiel likes Gabriel. The man is good, even under his layers of womanizing and too much sugar and the fact he generally lacks any kind of brain-to-mouth filter. He’s the only one who will carry on these one-sided conversations with Castiel as if it’s normal.

That, and he routinely shoos away Metatron. He often does this with a snide comment in sign language just beforehand, as well, and Castiel assumes just for his pleasure.

Castiel listens to Gabriel regale him with anecdotes for another fifteen minutes or so. Apparently, Gabriel managed to pull off a big prank on Lucifer that left the man’s blonde hair bright pink and sparkly. He’s planning another one to do to Michael and praying he doesn’t get fired for it.

Castiel silently agrees. Gabriel is nice to have in his booth, a grounding presence. He reminds Castiel of some of his brothers and sisters in Heaven.

But the performer’s visits never last long. Sure enough, he checks his watch and gets up with another sigh, leveling Castiel with a grin. As usual when he grins at Castiel, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Castiel has seen him look at other people, other workers or visitors. He has yet to see Gabriel’s eyes as sad as they are when he looks at him.

Castiel would sleep to pass the time after Gabriel leaves, except that he can’t sleep. He stares at the wall. He spends a lot of time daydreaming. About his wings. About Heaven. About smiting Crowley.

Slowly, the day passes. Castiel’s last visitor is Lucifer, whose hair is indeed a brilliant shade of pink. Lucifer’s greeting is his wolfish grin. Castiel levels him with a glare. As usual after sunset, Lucifer is carrying the jug of holy oil, and he checks the locks on Castiel’s cage before he pours a line in front of the bars. He whistles as he leaves the booth, and Castiel hears the deadbolt slide and the footsteps as Lucifer pours a fresh circle around the booth. Castiel drifts, the strong smell of the oil burning in his nose. He wishes he could sleep to get away from it all. But mostly, he wishes for his wings, so he could fly away from this wretched place.

This wasn’t what he’d wanted. He had spent so long defending the merit of humans to his brothers and sisters; had seen in them what their Father did.

Crowley isn’t human. But the humans he hires...most of them are so discouraging. They make Castiel see what his sisters and brothers see, why they get so exasperated and disgusted with them.

He’s not sure what he hates more; the harness of these false wings on his back, constantly reminding him of all the things he no longer is, and may never be again, or the fact that these humans seldom make him feel love anymore.


	2. II.

In the beginning, Crowley didn’t even need to lock Castiel up. Castiel was so weak and sick from the debilitating loss of his wings that, in the main circus tent, he would simply lay curled, trying to ignore Crowley kicking at him to get up as he announced to the crowd in a booming voice, “An angel! Ladies and gentlefolk, a real, live angel, fallen from Heaven! Look at his wings—“ and here he’d gesture to the first set of fake wings Castiel was forced to wear, “listen to him speak! Enochian, the language of the angels, the language no human being knows!” And here he’d give Castiel’s ribs another kick, and Castiel, in the worst pain he’d ever felt in his existence and out of it, would snap something in Enochian, and the crowd would gasp, the tent echoing with murmurs and a smattering of applause.

Castiel’s duties after that were simple. Crowley would ask him for a few more tricks, simple things a (falling) celestial being could do with ease (not anymore. Not without his wings.) and so he’d be asked to smite, to heal, to commune with Heaven.

These things were falsified. He could no longer heal. Could no longer smite. His lifelong connection to Heaven and the other angels had gone silent the moment his wings were severed from his body, and his head was deafeningly silent without it.

In the beginning, Castiel would be carried away from the crowd by the lion tamer and locked in a tiny cart, the kind made for tigers.

Castiel didn’t speak in the very, very beginning, either. Too injured. Too sick.

When Crowley wasn’t using him as a performance puppet, men in tailcoats and top hats and women in corseted, poofy dresses would gawk at him in his cart, where he lay trying to ignore the constantly searing pain in his back. Some of them didn’t believe he was an angel, even after Crowley’s display. They’d try to provoke him through the bars, throwing elephant peanuts at him and poking him with their canes. Castiel would, generally, automatically, snap out some retort in Enochian, and that was generally enough to sate people. Some of them tried for more, but Castiel couldn’t do any more; could just relish the cold floor against his burning skin and mutter something else in Enochian until they finally got bored or discouraged or annoyed and went away.

* * *

The beginning feels very long ago, now. Indeed, it’s been nearly two centuries since Crowley abducted Castiel into this Hell on Earth.

Castiel is no longer sick from his wings. His back has not healed; will not heal properly for another couple of centuries, most likely, or until he can be reunited with his wings. He still does not speak, but it is not because he is delirious, but because he is stubborn and willful and refuses to give anyone the satisfaction. Most people leave his tent disappointed because he would not answer their inane questions in Enochian, and this displeases Crowley, but because Castiel serves as a bargaining chip whenever Crowley wants something—from Hell or from Heaven—it hasn’t gotten him freed yet. Not that Crowley would be likely to give his wings back, but if Castiel is dead he can’t be held captive in a circus anymore.

People's reactions haven't changed too much, however. Castiel still earns suspicion, still has spoiled children toss popcorn at his face, clucking and snapping at him like he's an animal.

One woman spits through the bars at him, face ugly with derision as she says, "Angel? You can't be. There is no God." 

Castiel no longer gives in to any provocation. He doesn't snap in Enochian. Won't try to draw upon his limited, sluggishly dwindling Grace to appease them. He did that, for a while, after he'd been broken enough to listen to what Crowley said but before he'd been repulsed enough to stop responding to anything.

Today, after a stream of visitors cram themselves into his tiny booth, speaking about him like he isn't there or doesn't know what they're saying, someone else slips inside.

It's Rowena, the token magician. Castiel suspects she may have some actual magic in her; no lying human could so easily pull off the things she does. That, and she's looked this young for decades.

"Hello, handsome," she says. She steps right up to the bars, looking all around at them with contempt, and then pulls a tiny jar out of her pocket.

A gift. Castiel likes Rowena's gifts. Well, he likes Rowena, because she treats him as a person, the same as Gabriel does, and openly displays her loathing for how he's treated, but he also likes her gifts. Rowena gives him salves, tonics; things that make his back ache and burn less and can knock him blissfully unconscious whenever he doesn't want to deal with feeling like a zoo animal.

The tiny jar suggests a salve. She holds it out, turning it so it can slip through the bars. The whole time that she has her arm outstretched, as Castiel reaches to take the jar, she's looking over her shoulder, red curls spread across her shoulders like a fiery waterfall as she makes sure they won't get caught.

Castiel isn't supposed to be given things. Crowley, paranoid as he is, doesn't want anyone to break his precious angel out. It's the reason the lock on his cage is so complicated; only Crowley and Lucifer actually know how to trip the mechanisms to unlock it, so that nobody with a bleeding heart will decide to release him. 

But the thing is, Castiel isn't so sure how much anyone else wants to work for this circus, either. There's a weight that seems to be on everyone's shoulders; he gets the feeling that a lot of them almost feel that they owe Crowley for some reason.

In any case, Castiel won't turn down kindness where he can get it. He offers a tiny nod to Rowena in thanks, and she gives him a grin, although it's forced and lined with sorrow.

"Hang in there, angel," she says, and it doesn't sound angry or fearful from her, but fond. Rowena turns and leaves and Castiel is left alone for a while.

He twists the lid off the jar. The salve is a thick bluish paste that even numbs his fingertips a little; he reaches around to spread it onto the festering wounds on his back, the ones that won't heal, the ones that ache and weep for his wings to return, and the abrupt disruption of pain is almost orgasmic. 

There are more visitors today. None of them are Castiel's fellow circus workers; he receives no anecdotes from Gabriel, and Metatron must be too busy in the ticket booth to sneak away. 

Castiel almost hates when children come the most. They always look at him in such awe; especially the kids who must have been raised with religion, since those are the kids who will usually cross themselves in prayer or ask their parents questions about God and Heaven and angels and try to ask these questions to Castiel, too.

Castiel doesn't answer them. The sight of kids makes something ache in him. They so clearly can't see anything wrong with Castiel, with the world, with anything; they're so pure and innocent and Castiel hates the thought of them being anywhere in the vicinity of Crowley the demon, or Lucifer with his wolfish smirk, or Alastair and Azazel with their unwelcome hands. 

Some children cry when they see him. Sometimes it is out of surprise or fear, but he's had kids who were a little bit older take one look at his sad face and his raw back and begin to weep, asking their parents why he's treated like this and saying it's not fair, it's not fair.

Some parents don't know what to say, so they don't say anything, staring at Castiel with this faraway, uncertain look on their face. Some agree with their kids, and mothers in particular are predisposed to shed a few tears over it in tandem with their children. 

But no parent or child can break Castiel out. He knows some of them bring queries to Crowley; occasionally, when Crowley steps into his booth with one warning or another he'll mention that he had more people trying to advocate for Castiel's rights. Crowley tends to lament the old days whenever he brings this up, when people were so put off by an oddity such as Castiel that it never occurred to them to try to be concerned for his welfare.

Castiel is, unfortunately, subjected to one of these visits tonight. Crowley steps in, long, gaudy ringmaster's coat swinging behind his legs, and comes to stop in front of Castiel's bars. He doesn't sit, like Gabriel, or come close enough to touch, like Rowena, but stays a foot or so out of reach. 

"Well, Castiel," Crowley says. "Figured I'd come see how everyone's favorite winged beast is doing."

Castiel doesn't respond. He's turned his back to the bars, actually, staring at the dilapidated wooden wall again, reinforced with more iron bars, and this is a good thing in the presence of Crowley.

This is a good thing because he has enough Grace left to still see Crowley's true form, red and simmering under his skin, casting his eyes black and opaque and making blood trail from his eye sockets. 

Castiel has always hated demons; it's innate, as an angel, but he doesn't think he's ever met one he hates more than Crowley. Even the real Lucifer wouldn't compare, Castiel thinks bitterly, even if he is the Devil. 

"Glad to see you still won't answer," Crowley says. His voice is nonchalant but Castiel can tell he's annoyed. "I had more weeping kids asking after you today. 'Is the angel okay? Is the angel okay?'"

The words sound bitter, revolting in Crowley's mouth. Castiel doesn't respond. He's wishing for his wings, wishing to smite Crowley into ashes.

"Should smile more," Crowley suggests. "Maybe you should make sure your visitors get what they're paying for."

Castiel casts a glare back over his shoulder. Crowley smirks at the sight.

"Haven't lost you yet," he gloats. "Ta-ta, Castiel."

And then he's gone, and Castiel can stop gritting his teeth so hard.

Lucifer comes in again, later, whistling as he goes through the nightly routine of ensuring Castiel is properly imprisoned.

Castiel thinks he'd rather take the real Lucifer, as the warrior he was in Heaven, than deal with this one, whose real name is Lucius.

Castiel would rather do a lot of things, he thinks. He'd rather deal with the coldness of his brothers and sisters and always being the odd one out.

Instead, he sits curled in his cage and counts the minutes until morning. One, twelve, fifty-nine...


	3. III.

Castiel hates it when Lucifer and Michael get touchy with Pamela.

He likes Pamela; she's feisty, bold. The seer always tries to stand up for Castiel, for some of the visitors, for Gabriel, for anyone she feels isn't being treated fairly by Crowley and his henchmen.

This morning, after the door to Castiel's booth has been propped open, he hears muffled yelling, and then Pamela and Michael come into view, clearly agitated. 

He can't make out their words; they’re standing too far away and everything else is too loud. But he can see the challenge in Pamela's stance, can see the tense lines this aggravation is giving her posture. Michael yells something back at her, getting as far into her personal space as he can, but she doesn't flinch.

Michael towers over her; Castiel has seen plenty of people cowed by him, but she’s as fearless as they come. She yells straight back at him, gesturing wildly in the direction of Castiel and then towards another sector of the circus, black curls swinging rapidly back and forth as they argue.

But Michael has a temper that matches Pamela's fearlessness. Even Crowley has a longer fuse, and he’s actual Hellspawn.

Castiel is, unfortunately, not surprised to see Michael backhand Pamela across the face. It makes him angry every time, and makes more despair bloom under his ribs, but it happens too often. Pamela's persistence, her righteousness, make her an unfortunately easy target for the abuse of the higher ups. Castiel has seen Lucifer hit her like this, too, and Crowley has grabbed her and yanked her around before. He has his suspicions that Alastair and Azazel are no different.

Michael storms off before Pamela can retaliate, but she screams after him, seemingly unperturbed. Eventually Michael must vanish, because she sighs, her posture softening into something hunched and worn.

Pamela stands there for a moment, looking all around at the bustle of the circus setting up for the day, and then she turns and slips into Castiel's booth.

Her cheek is red; Michael slapped her hard enough that there’s the outline of a handprint. She rolls up one sleeve and Castiel can see a bruise around her forearm that suggests someone has held her there, too tightly. Crowley’s been at her recently, then, too.

Pamela has unshed tears in her eyes, but her voice doesn't waver as she smiles and says, "Hey, Castiel."

Castiel nods to her. He stands, presses as close as he can against the bars.

Pamela steps forward so she’s within his reach. 

This is a routine for them; a very sad one, but something that carries its own rhythm. They both know to expect it.

Castiel slips his fingers through the bars. Pamela has bent forward a little so that her forehead is in easier reach; Castiel presses his fingers to it. 

This is what he tries to save his Grace for; this is their routine. He touches her, and draws on his Grace, and the bruise and the red mark fade from her skin. 

Since he'd been aware that this was happening and she'd been aware he could heal her, Castiel has been healing all of the bruises and marks that are put on Pamela.

If he was still speaking, he'd ask her why she was still here. He'd tell her to leave; she’s a remarkably talented seer and could do well off on her own. 

But he can't bring himself to use his voice. And she'd guessed a long time ago that he wanted to say these things; had told him she owed Crowley something, that she couldn't leave yet.

It is yet another bullet point on Castiel's list of reasons to smite Crowley.

Pamela thanks him with a voice that's still shaky. Her face is still solemn, sorrowful, but the tears in her eyes have receded a bit, and she presses a kiss to Castiel's fingers, and then she's gone.

Castiel spends the rest of his day avoiding eye contact with people. He's gotten very good at it over the years, become a master of stoicism and zoning out. 

Around dusk, Castiel's turned to face the door to his booth. He does like looking at the lights; the Ferris wheel isn't too far off across the way, and the flickering reds and yellows of its lights cast a warmth over the circus that Castiel has otherwise only seen in Gabriel and Pamela and Rowena and Meg, who slips suddenly into his booth like she's been summoned by his thoughts.

Meg, like Pamela, like Rowena, is a woman to be reckoned with. Castiel has always thought she's beautiful, too; he shouldn't, he's not allowed to lust after or love a human, but it's something he can't get rid of. Meg _is_ beautiful, all dark curls and a pretty face.

"Hey, Clarence," she says. Castiel soaks up the sound of her voice. "You still holding up?"

He nods. Meg crouches--Castiel's sitting cross-legged on the floor--and grins at him.

"Shoulda seen Crowley a couple of minutes ago, Clarence," she says. "A couple of people weren't so fond of his whole ringleader routine. Convinced Metatron to give them a full ticket refund and left after they'd already seen the whole show. Thought the Hell king's head would explode."

Castiel appreciates Meg's humor. He appreciates her steady disposition; sometimes it makes him feel worse when Gabriel and Rowena and Pamela look at him with open pity and despair. But Meg maintains an even keel; the lithe tightrope walker never wavers too far one way or the other, and it almost makes Castiel feel like he's back in Heaven, surrounded by level-headed angels.

Humans, he has found, are invariably much less level-headed.

He also finds it ironic that Meg sometimes refers to Crowley as the king of Hell; in truth, she probably isn't all that far off.

Meg maintains a conversation with him for another ten minutes. Like Gabriel, she's completely at ease treating the conversation as if Castiel isn’t dead silent.

After she leaves, Castiel returns to staring out at the sliver of the circus he can see. The sun has completely set, now, and while Castiel hates the dull fluorescents lighting up his booth, he can at least see the stars.

There are, eventually, two young men who come to a stop outside of Castiel’s booth. They’re holding hands and the shorter one is talking on and on and on about something; the taller one is grinning at him fondly, floppy hair shadowing his eyes.

The shorter one pulls his companion closer to Castiel’s booth. The taller one goes along, not quite paying attention at first. Castiel knows when he starts paying attention, because his whole face changes. He must see the sign, because then his face scrunches into confusion and resignation.

Castiel knows the moment the boy looks at him, because they make eye contact. The boy’s whole face crumples; his body wilts like an under-watered flower. He plants his feet and shakes his head when his companion tries to pull him closer. They share a hushed conversation Castiel isn’t bothered to eavesdrop on, and then they begin to walk away.

Right before they’re out of sight, the taller one meets Castiel’s eyes again. His face is sorrowful, hazel eyes wide with hurt; Castiel turns away so he doesn’t have to see it anymore.

The encounter is easy to forget. That boy will be far from the last visitor to look at Castiel with such pity.

He stares at the stars until Lucifer shuts the door, the lights go out, and Castiel’s engulfed in the darkness of this tiny wooden shack he’s stuck in.


	4. IV.

Castiel knows this is a bad idea. Objectively, working with any patron of Hell is not a good play; unfortunately, it is the only play Castiel has.

Heaven is on the brink of civil war. Castiel’s been sent to find Purgatory; a long, long journey leads him to meeting Crowley.

Crowley, who Castiel immediately dislikes. Crowley, whose true form sizzles under his skin like molten lava, grinning at Castiel with rows of glinting teeth and black eyes that weep blood.

Maybe it would help if Castiel could see Crowley without seeing his true form. Maybe it wouldn’t. Either way, Crowley claims to know where Purgatory is.

And Castiel falls for it.

* * *

It’s a couple of years later when Crowley’s plan finally clicks into place. Castiel has always wondered why such a powerful demon runs a circus, but strapped down in the main tent in the middle of the night, stands empty, two other demons helping to hold Castiel down--he begins to understand. This is entertainment; for Crowley, this is theater.

“You’ve given me all I’ve wanted,” Crowley sneers. He’s grinning; Castiel really hates those teeth. “Except for one thing.”

Castiel has never been bound like this before. He doesn’t know how to get out of it; Crowley’s strapped him down with Enochian sigils barring his movements. He’s had a bad feeling since he was strapped face-down, but that feeling only gets worse and worse as Crowley pulls out a sword.

There should, hypothetically, be a sword eater around to eat the sword. Castiel knows this from the countless days he’s spent annoyed at Crowley’s insistence on circus business before business business. 

Crowley chuckles. His true form is bleeding through a little more, and the sound is grating; metal screeching against metal. He’s stalking in a circle around Castiel, running one finger down the blade.

“Did you know one of your buddies made this sword? Kills angels, you know.”

“Crowley,” Castiel spits. “What is this?”

“Ah, well, glad you asked,” Crowley says. He bows, ringmaster’s coat fluttering around him like a cape. “You, angel, are going to be my newest addition.”

Castiel’s still struggling against his binds and the two demons holding him down. He glares as best as he can toward Crowley, trying to break past the sigils. It’ll be nothing but satisfying to finally smite this bastard.

Crowley comes closer. Castiel doesn’t realize what’s about to happen until the very last second, and by then Crowley’s already winding up with the sword and it’s far too late for Castiel to do anything.

Angels cannot really feel pain. They’re built as soldiers and soldiers can’t let pain stop them. 

Castiel has his head turned around, looking back over his shoulder, as Crowley’s sword connects with his wings. The blade hits and for a second, Castiel’s wings materialize, feathers shining black and blue, and flare out so sharply that they knock away the demons holding Castiel down. The moment his feathers touch them, the demons smoke out of their vessels, disintegrate into ash and fall from the air like morbid snow.

Crowley’s blade severs his wings off of his back completely in the next second. Castiel can’t move as much as he wants to,  _ needs to _ , to get away from the pain. He’s never felt pain this strong. 

He wishes later that he could remember where Crowley had gone with his wings. But all Castiel knows in the moment is screaming in anguish and pain, writhing as much as his binds will allow. 

When he finally catches his breath, he yells for Crowley, shouts curses in Enochian, blood and Grace seeping out of the stumps his wings left behind, Grace leaking from his mouth, pouring from his nose and eyes, coating his body in ethereal, pale blue liquid. 

Castiel loses consciousness before Crowley returns.

* * *

When he wakes, he’s surrounded by holy fire. Crowley is standing just outside the circle, grinning, waving a black feather toward Castiel.

“An angel and his wings,” Crowley says. “You’ll make me a killing. Might get me what I want from upstairs, too, Castiel.”

“Go back to Hell,” Castiel spits. He’s shaking and weak, and he knows things are about to get much, much worse as he becomes more and more human. Doesn’t mean he gives up.

Crowley grins. Castiel resolves to bash those wretched teeth in.

All Castiel has to do is reunite with his wings. Off his back, they’ll keep physical form on this plane. They’re his ticket to regaining his Grace.

Crowley’s only one demon. Castiel’s wings took care of the two henchmen he’d had.

Castiel doesn’t have a choice. He’d rather die before giving up on his wings. He’ll be a force to reckon with even as a human, he resolves. Crowley will fall to his knees and offer Castiel’s wings on a silver platter.

Castiel’s a soldier. How hard can this be?


	5. V.

Castiel only barely remembers what it was like to burn with so much fight in his chest. He’d welcome Death if the man walked into his booth right now. He’s failed Heaven; he’s failed his Father; he’s failed himself. He doesn’t even want to know what happened to Heaven; Purgatory was supposed to be the cure for the war. Without it, Castiel fears there may be barely a Heaven left.

He thinks about that often. But there’s not much he can do about it, sitting here in his glorified cage, and he’s lost the plan he’d kept in his head for so long, the one that choreographed exactly how Castiel would get his wings back.

He doubts he’ll be able to fight Crowley as effectively as he’d once hoped. He hadn’t realized how little strength he’d have, even with the limited amount of Grace still in him. He can’t even break out of this damn cage, let alone confront Crowley.

Nobody comes to visit Castiel today. His booth is cold and empty. Castiel sits on the

floor, knees up to his chest, his tailbone sore, staring at the blue sky outside and half-hoping someone he recognizes will walk in. Even if it’s Metatron.

As nice as it is that Castiel has Gabriel and Meg and Pamela and Rowena, their main focus isn’t him. They have their own duties, their own struggles, and as much as their visits are nice and, in Rowena’s case, often helpful, they’re sporadic.

Sometimes Castiel goes weeks without them visiting. Sometimes they seem to come in day after day after day.   
It’s been a week since Castiel’s seen anyone. A week since Meg’s last visit. A week since he’s had to heal Pamela. A little over a week since Rowena gave him a salve. A little over a week since Gabriel was last here to regale him with anecdotes.

It shouldn’t bother Castiel. Angels were not built to be social creatures. He doesn’t like the isolation, though. He loves humans. He loves his brothers and sisters. He misses talking to them in Heaven, even when he was often the odd one out.

Today he just sits. Barely anyone stops by the circus; around noon the blue sky fades to gray and it begins to rain. The drumbeat of the downpour is a sound Castiel has found he actually enjoys. He’s sure he’d enjoy it even more if he could just go out and stand in it.

Lucifer doesn’t even say a word when he comes to lock up. Castiel’s left in the dark, again, scrunched up against the wall, listening to the rain.

* * *

He’s deep in thought when the door rattles. Castiel startles back to awareness, staring at the door. It rattles again, and over the steady rain Castiel can make out the murmuring of someone’s quiet voice.

Castiel uncurls. He stands, pressing as close to the bars as he dares. He refuses to take his eyes off the door.

In all his years, nothing like this has ever happened.

Something gives and the door flies open, banging loudly against the wall.

Castiel stares. He can just make out a silhouette in the doorway. Tall. Skinny. After a moment, the silhouette flicks the light on.

Neither of them move for a long moment. Castiel is frozen in shock, hope coagulating thick in his veins, spreading warmth to his fingertips. His back aches and aches and aches.

It’s the boy. From a week ago. The one that had met Castiel’s eyes and drooped with sorrow. The one with the floppy hair. Now Castiel can see his eyes, young and bright and hazel. He’s soaking wet, his jacket dripping water onto the floor. For a long moment, that’s the only sound: _plink, plink, plink_.

Castiel threads his fingers through the iron bars. The hope in him is clawing up his throat, now; his back _aches_.

The boy takes a couple of cautious steps forward. He glances back over his shoulder and then takes another step.

Castiel shocks them both when he speaks. “Brother? Has He sent you?”

The boy’s face scrunches in confusion. Concern flares up in his eyes when he hears how rough, how hoarse Castiel’s voice is.

Castiel feels almost faint. His throat hurts after speaking for the first time in so long. He’s...he’s still reeling from the fact that he spoke at all. But no one other than an angel would be here...

“No?” the boy says. His voice wavers with uncertainty; he takes another step forward. “I came by myself.”

Castiel keeps staring as the boy comes closer and closer. He has to crane his neck to look up at him when he has a palm pressed against the other side of the bars; the boy is a lot taller than he’d thought.

“I’m going to get you out,” he promises, and then he moves to the lock. 

Castiel can’t move. He’s frozen, feet like lead. The boy’s struggling with the lock and the hope dwindles in Castiel’s chest. There is no way one random human man can get him out of this.

The lock pops. The boy removes it carefully, not letting it make noise. 

They both flinch when he swings the door of the cage open. It’s so underused that it screeches the whole way; when it’s open enough for Castiel to leave, they spend a long moment just standing still, listening for any indication that they’ve been caught.

The boy gestures to him. Castiel swallows, collects his thoughts, and slowly convinces himself to put one foot in front of the other until he’s walking through the door.

He stops. He turns and he looks through the bars; this is what it feels like to look in on the caged angel. Castiel suppresses a shudder. He can almost see himself curled in the corner, back to the bars. 

Without speaking, they leave Castiel’s booth.

For the first time in nearly one-hundred and fifty years, Castiel leaves that booth. He steps out into the rain and the drumbeat of it is suddenly hitting against his shoulders, pressing against the top of his head.

Castiel tilts his head back to feel the rain on his face. Tears slip down his cheeks when he closes his eyes. He’s dimly aware of the boy standing nearby, watching him, but Castiel doesn’t care.

He breathes in, savoring the rich freshness of the air, and exists.

“We should go,” the boy says after a minute or so. “We don’t want to get caught.”

Castiel pulls in another deep breath. He opens his eyes and they go.

They run. Castiel stumbles frequently; his limited Grace has kept his body from deteriorating completely, but he’s still struggling with the freedom of so much movement after so long.

The boy’s laughing as they reach his car. Castiel has been in one exactly twice; both times were while Crowley moved the whole circus. 

The boy doesn’t handcuff him and stuff him in the trunk, though. He yanks open the passenger door and jogs around to the driver’s side.

Castiel turns to take one last look at the circus. A pang hits him when he realizes he hasn’t gotten his wings yet; but one glance at the boy’s eager, bright young face and Castiel lets go of the idea. He will not let an innocent human being get dragged into his own battle.

He gets into the car, closes the door, and the boy speeds away, the hulking silhouettes of the circus tent and the rides getting smaller and smaller in the mirrors.

“Alright,” he says then, sighing. He takes a hand off the wheel to pull off the sopping wet hood of his raincoat. “I’m Sam.”

Castiel nods. He doesn’t speak. Sam does not comment.

“You have anywhere you need me to take you?” Sam asks. “Family that needs to see you? I know you...you mentioned a brother.”

Castiel shakes his head when Sam glances toward him.

Sam’s eyes seem to get darker with sorrow; a frown pulls at the edges of his mouth. “Alright,” he says. “You can come stay with me, then. If-if you want, I mean.”

Castiel gets caught staring the next time Sam looks at him. 

“What?” Sam says, chuckling a little. “You’ve never been invited to stay anywhere before?”

Castiel shakes his head. It makes any mirth leave Sam’s face far too quickly.

Sam sighs. “I’m sorry. Do you want to stay with me, though? For the night, at least?”

Castiel hesitates. Sam may have just rescued him from one hell, but that doesn’t mean Castiel should trust him not to toss him into another. His wariness must bleed into his expression, because Sam nods, clears his throat, and nods toward the backseat.

“My backpack is back there,” he says. “I’m a pre-law student at Stanford. I’m from a tiny town in Kansas. I promise I just want to help you out.”

His voice is steady. Calm. Genuine. It is an extremely welcome change of tone.

Castiel nods. Sam nods back and they don’t speak for the rest of the drive.


	6. VI.

The apartment complex they pull up to is average. It is, naturally, nothing like the homes Castiel remembers from the last time he was freely walking the Earth, but it has the same general idea; a tidy building style, nothing more fancy than four walls and a ceiling. 

“This is where I live,” Sam says. “Brady isn’t home for the weekend, so it’s just going to be the two of us. Is that...is that alright?”

Castiel offers him the tiniest nod. He waits to get out of the car until Sam gets out, pulling his backpack off of the backseat and beckoning Cas toward the door.

It’s raining here, too; Cas doesn’t think there’s weather he loves more than rain. Especially now, with it hitting his face, drenching his hair; he is here, and he is outside, and it is amazing. Surreal.

It’s almost odd how much dread Castiel feels about going into the building. There’s the chance that Sam isn’t who he says he is; that Castiel’s walking into another trap. That, somehow, this is something else Crowley has cooked up.

But then Sam turns to him, floppy bangs flat against his head from the rainwater, this open expression of hope on his face. It makes Castiel think of some of his younger brothers and sisters, fresh to the cause, still in love with humanity.

Unable to look at Sam any longer, Castiel just steps inside. Sam leads them up two flights of stairs, which make Castiel’s body ache in protest, and then down a hallway. Just after a bend, he stops at apartment 20-C.

Castiel looks around the hallway as Sam unlocks the door. Some apartments have doormats outside; some have decorations hung on the door. Sam’s apartment doesn’t have either.

Sam lets Castiel enter first. As Sam shuts the door behind them, wiping his feet on the mat that’s just inside, Castiel takes stock of their surroundings.

This apartment feels...small. Castiel feels he remembers humans living in quarters larger than this. Then again, his ideas of spaciousness have been warped by so much time cooped in a tiny cage in a tiny shed.

The kitchen adjoins a tiny dining space and a slightly larger living room. There’s a singular hallway branching off to the right of the living room. 

“It’s not much,” Sam says. “But it’s pretty good for two almost-broke college kids. We uh, we don’t have a spare room, but I can just take the couch and you take our room.”

_No_ , Castiel thinks. _I don’t sleep. I don’t need the bed._

Instead of saying anything, Castiel just shakes his head.

“No? It’s really not a big deal. I’d feel better if you got the bed. Sleeping on a couch won’t kill me, promise.”

Castiel sighs. Speaking would make this so much easier, but...he doesn’t want to. Maybe there should be a reason beyond that. Maybe he shouldn’t speak because of what happened in that circus. But the truth is, he stopped speaking because he simply didn’t see the point any more, and now? Now he’s struggling to see the point as well. 

Besides, silence gives him more room to observe. To plan to get out if necessary.

Sam’s biting his lip. He has a look of concentration on his face, his eyes narrowed. After a moment, he starts down that little hallway.

“Hold on,” he says over his shoulder. “I think I have a way to make this easier.”

Castiel can’t help but be on edge while Sam’s gone. He trusted Crowley once with ‘making things easier’; the words make an uncomfortable, unnatural chill run down his spine. He has no idea what Sam could be thinking, planning, hiding. His ability to read thoughts evaporated with most of his Grace.

And now? With Castiel separated completely from his wings? He will lose the rest of his Grace. He will fall the rest of the way, become completely human in this ‘college’ kid’s apartment, seemingly worlds away from his siblings and knowing, once and for all, that he’s failed as an angel.

A rush of despair makes Castiel’s chest feel heavy. He very carefully keeps himself from thinking, staring out the living room window at the rain.

It’s pouring, rain coming down in sheets. Castiel watches it, watches the wind catch it and knock drops off course, and he’s still looking when Sam returns.

Castiel shuts his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, he turns to face Sam, who looks equal parts awkward and eager.

“Here,” Sam says, holding a white rectangular object out to Cas. “It’s a whiteboard. I used to have it on my dorm door, kept it when I moved here but never use it. I figured maybe it could help? Since you don’t seem comfortable talking?”

Castiel just looks at him for a moment. 

Sam’s face goes red; rubbing his free hand against the back of his neck, he begins rambling. “I mean--not that that’s a problem, I don’t mind at all! It’s not, like it isn’t a bad thing if you don’t want to talk to me, I get it. Please don’t take it the wrong way, I just...I want to make it easier for you.”

Castiel’s a little impressed that Sam said all of that with a single breath. Sam’s lungs don’t seem as impressed, leaving him panting.

Sam’s looking at him expectantly, still blushing. Castiel holds his hand out for the board, pulls the writing utensil off of the top, and tries to remember how to write.

It sounds so asinine, an angel of the Lord not remembering how to write. Omniscient, all-knowing beings and all that. But Castiel hasn’t had the chance to physically write for two hundred years; back then, it was all quills and fountain pens. This utensil didn’t come with any offered ink; curiously, Castiel presses it to the whiteboard and finds that it must have ink inside.

He spends probably too much time getting reacquainted to writing; he only looks up when there’s a noise from the kitchen, and he finds Sam digging through cabinets, not paying any attention to Castiel.

Slowly, in crude lettering that makes Castiel think of children, he writes out a message. It’d be more smoothly written in Enochian; in English, it is a pitiful, pathetic representation of a celestial being. Ex-celestial being.

His message written, Castiel takes a moment to just observe Sam. He is very tall; very lean. He’s wearing the same kind of clothing Castiel saw plenty of at the circus; jeans, a sweatshirt. 

Castiel isn’t quite sure what Sam’s doing. He appears to be preparing...something...in the kitchen, but this is not at all a comparable process to what Castiel remembers from the last time he was able to freely observe humanity.

There’s a large, shiny silver basin on the counter. Next to it, Sam lays out a spoon and a spatula. Castiel remembers those, although they were wooden the last time he saw them.

Sam pulls some things out of the large ice box that’s up against the wall. Some of them are poured into the basin; some of them are laid out on a plate. The things that have been laid out on a plate end up getting dropped into a much shallower basin.

After a few minutes, Sam glances behind him. He doesn’t seem surprised to find Castiel staring; just nods to the whiteboard.

Castiel holds it up.

“‘No sleep,’” Sam reads. “You gotta be tired, though, man. I’ll just take the couch.”

Castiel draws a wavering bold line under his statement to solidify his position.

Now Sam begins to look a little concerned. A little confused. “Listen, uhh…”

Castiel carefully spells out his name. The letters look like they’ve been dumped onto the whiteboard out of a can of alphabet soup. Castiel only knows what alphabet soup is because Gabriel used to mention eating it as a child.

“Castiel,” Sam says in a tentative voice, like he’s worried about getting it wrong. “Well, Castiel, even if you don’t need sleep, don’t you need...I don’t know, do you need rest? I just...your poor back, man, being on that concrete floor.”

Castiel writes a new message.

Sam squints at it. “‘Take couch.’ I mean, if you’re really sure...I won’t force you into anything. You hungry?”

‘No food.’

Sam frowns. “They didn’t feed you?”

Castiel frowns back. He wants to write another message, but the board is filled with inexperienced scrawl.

Sam notices his hesitation; he looks around the counters, pulls a cloth out of a drawer, and tosses it to Castiel. “There, there’s an eraser.”

An...eraser. That’s not what Castiel remembers calling a small square cloth like this.

He glances at Sam, who’s still frowning at him. His head is just slightly tilted to the side and as such, some of his hair is hanging to the side. 

“You...you wipe the board with it,” Sam offers. He turns to check the basins on what Castiel believes must be a stove, then walks over and gently takes the board and the cloth from Castiel. “Like this,” he says, scrubbing the cloth over the board. The ink all disappears; a blank, white slate reflects the dingy overhead lights.

Sam offers the board and the cloth back. Castiel takes them, his focus zeroing back in on his writing.

‘Not need food,’ Castiel scrawls.

Sam’s face scrunches in confusion. His shoulders seem to droop just a little as he looks between Castiel and the stove.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll...if you don’t mind, I’ll just eat some of this then. It can be, I don’t know, midnight dinner. I’ll just save the rest for Brady.”

Castiel doesn’t write anything in response. Sam doesn’t speak while he finishes with his food preparation, but when he’s done, he gestures for Castiel to come join him at the rickety little table shoved into the tiny dining space.

Castiel comes over a little cautiously. It generally meant trouble whenever Crowley invited him to come sit; generally meant scheming or pain. 

Sam doesn’t quite look sinister, though; he just sits there, eating a...what did he call it? A grilled cheese? And he just nods as Castiel pulls out a chair and sits down across from him.

“So,” Sam says once he’s swallowed. “Do you...I mean, do you want to go to the police about this? I’m pretty sure it’s, you know, kind of illegal to keep a man in a cage. Well, more than pretty sure, I’ve learned that one already.”

Castiel leans over his whiteboard. ‘Will not help. Have not help.’

Sam blinks, recoiling just a bit. “Well that’s...uh...I’m sorry. They should have.”

Castiel offers a tiny shrug.

Sam seems to shake off whatever it is that’s bothering him about that. Castiel gets it; he was infuriated for a long time that nobody would help them all, so clearly unfairly abused. But Crowley is skilled, cunning; he had the police wrapped around his claw-tipped fingers and they didn’t ever so much as bat an eye at him.

Castiel’s busy admiring the water stains in the ceiling the next time Sam speaks. “Where you from, Castiel?”

Castiel hesitates. What does he say? America? Nowhere in particular? Does he tell the truth to this man--this _kid_ \--that he barely knows?

Sam’s looking at him a little strangely, half confused and half concerned. “You are from somewhere, aren’t you?” he asks quietly. “You didn’t...you didn’t grow up in that hellhole, did you?”

Castiel shakes his head. No, he didn’t grow up there. More aptly he grew down there, wilted, deteriorated. He spends another minute just thinking, mulling over pros and cons, Crowley’s manipulation crystal clear in his head, burning through him like a bomb fuse.

Slowly, he writes an answer on the board and turns it toward Sam.

“”Heaven,’” Sam reads. His face immediately scrunches with surprise. “ _Heaven_? What…”

Castiel doesn’t write anything. 

Sam lets out a long breath. “Angel,” he breathes. “You’re...was that sign not wrong? I figured it was a, a lie.”

Castiel guesses the grim expression on his face must answer Sam’s question; the boy scrubs a hand down over his face and leans back in his seat. He looks like he’s just received very difficult news.

“Wow,” Sam whispers. “I...I guess that explains the whole sleep and food thing. I’m...Castiel, I’m really sorry.”

Castiel just looks at Sam. He has no good response to that, and there’s a deep sorrow cutting through the hazel of Sam’s eyes, sluicing over his shoulders and making his posture hunched, defeated. He doubts he can say anything to make Sam feel better.

“Are there...are there more of you at that circus? More angels? Because I can go back. I’ll get them out.”

Something very heavy settles itself into the hollow of Castiel’s chest. His back aches; his eyes burn.

‘No,’ he writes. ‘Me only.’

“Okay,” Sam says, “okay. I...is there anything I can do for you? I mean, do you need to be, be back in Heaven?”

Oh, Castiel’s whole body hurts. Sam’s face is so open; the sorrow there and the eagerness to help are completely transparent.

_Take me to the circus_ , Castiel thinks. _Let me get my wings_.

Even as he thinks it, Castiel knows he cannot pass it along to Sam. Attempting to get his wings back will be enough of a death sentence for himself; he cannot bear the thought of Sam falling with him. Sam is an innocent; Sam is what Castiel was made to protect.

All the same, something dies in him when he shakes his head at Sam’s questions. 

Sam deflates a little more. “You’re sure? There’s really nothing I can do?”

Back throbbing, Castiel just shakes his head again.


	7. VII.

Once Sam has finished eating, he clears his plate from the table, turns to Castiel, and just looks at him for a moment before he starts walking down the hall, gesturing for Castiel to follow.

Castiel follows a little curiously, a little cautiously. He knows, logically, that Sam has done nothing but be kind to him over the last few hours and that probably will not change. But he can’t let go. His guard must stay up; he cannot afford to make the same mistake twice.

Sam leads him into what Castiel believes is a bathroom. This is also something that’s changed a lot since Castiel last saw; first of all, it is indoors. Second of all, everything is smooth porcelain, sleek and practical, instead of rough-hewn wood.

“I thought you might want to take a shower,” Sam explains. “I’ll give you some of my old clothes for you to wear. Be better than...that thing.”

Castiel glances down. He’s been wearing this grubby toga for...a very, very long time. It was one of Crowley’s many attempts at conning authenticity into Castiel; and it doubled as a layer to hide the harness of fake wings.

Castiel nods his thanks. Sam offers him a small smile in return, shows Castiel how to operate the shower, and leaves a stack of clothes on the counter.

Castiel has never taken a shower. There is no need for hygienic upkeep when sequestered away in Heaven, and the last time he was here where he could have washed himself, the only available receptacles were tubs.

A shower, he decides, feels a little bit like rain. It’s the same steady beat of water; the same drumming against his skin. Rain has always felt blessedly cool, however. A shower is scalding; the hot water engulfs Castiel in swaths of steam. 

He thinks he enjoys it. It’s nice to have that toga off; it’s very nice to have the harness off, the grubby white wings in an ungainly heap on Sam’s bathroom floor.

There are still sores on his back. The harness aggravated them, and the absence of it is a relief for that reason, too.

Castiel closes his eyes under the spray of hot water for a second. If he concentrates very hard, he can almost feel what it would be like to have his wings on his back right now. They’d be tucked away on the spiritual plane; there’d be no physical evidence of them, but they’d still be a nice weight on his back, an anchoring presence. He could stand in this shower and spread his wings as far as they go, feel every kink work its way out of them, feel the oddly soothing stretch in his shoulder blades, without anyone being any the wiser.

_Oh_ , Castiel misses his wings. He looks around at the shower walls to try to distract himself; thinking about his wings was a very, very bad idea.

All that does is make it worse. The stark blue tiles in Sam’s bathroom only serve as a reminder to Castiel that he is, yet again, in an unfamiliar situation. He is, yet again, at a disadvantage. He is, yet again, failing. 

He is miles from his wings. To an angel that’s eons old, a few measly miles should be no distance at all; but to an angel separated from his wings, a few measly miles are too many. The distance will fully sever the link between Castiel and his remaining Grace. Without his wings in proximity, he’s nothing but a failing angel and a forlorn man with two festering sores on his back and a stubborn cough as he chokes out the holy call.

Annoyed with himself for falling into more despair, Castiel shuts off the water. He scrubs his face with his towel as roughly as he can to try to chase the thoughts away.

Steam is fogging up the mirror. Castiel is almost grateful for this; for one thing, he doesn’t have to look at his body; at his ruined back and his forlorn face and the ethereal blue that’s almost faded completely from his eyes.

Castiel turns to the clothes Sam left him instead. A pair of baggy black pants; Castiel thinks maybe he’s heard in passing this kind of pants referred to as ‘sweatpants,’ but he isn’t completely sure. He slips them on and has to catch the waistband before they fall right off again. There’s a string; he pulls it experimentally and when he realizes it makes the pants tighter, he ties it into a knot to keep them that way.

There’s also a red sweatshirt. Emblazoned on the front are bolded white letters spelling “STANFORD.” This is also too big when Castiel puts it on; the sleeves are slightly too long and the body of it hangs a little baggy. 

Castiel likes it. It is another new sensation, but a very welcome one. The clothes are warm and clean; unlike the toga, which served to help put Castiel on display, these clothes seem to serve to be nothing more than comfortable. 

He is also very, very grateful to have the harness off. There are no straps digging uncomfortably into the sores on his back; there are no fake, dingy cherub wings bouncing behind him and making it near impossible to put his back against anything comfortably. 

He grips the harness tight by one ostentatious wing as he leaves the bathroom, looking for Sam. 

Sam’s in the little living room, absurdly long legs curled up on the couch underneath him and covered with a blanket. He looks up from the book in his lap when he hears Castiel’s footsteps, and his face splits into a grin.

“Hey, Cas,” he says. His eyes flicker to the wings dangling from Castiel’s fingers, and his smile fades a little. “Whatcha got there?”

Castiel just stares at him for a moment. He’s fairly sure Sam just gave him a nickname. It’s far from the first nickname he’s ever had; Gabriel was particularly fond of using nicknames. For some reason, though, Sam’s nickname feels different. More...tentative, maybe.

“Is...is that not okay?” Sam asks, his ears flooding red. “I can just call you Castiel, if you want. I just...I don’t know.”

Castiel shakes his head. He crosses the room to drop the harness into the kitchen trash receptacle, and then picks up his whiteboard. 

‘Fine,’ he scrawls. Below it he writes ‘Cas.’

“Okay,” Sam says. “Just making sure. I...I didn’t realize those wings were fake, Cas.”

Castiel can’t keep the disgust off of his face. Emphatically, in bolded letters, he writes ‘Travesty. Insulting. Inaccurate.’

Sam holds up his hands. “Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean to hit a nerve. Although I’d say it’s probably a good thing they’re gone, then, yeah?”

Castiel considers him for a moment before he nods. There’s a beat, Castiel just standing in the kitchen, holding his whiteboard, Sam twisted around to look over the back of the couch at him. 

“You can come sit with me and watch TV, if you want,” Sam says. “I’m doing schoolwork, but it won’t distract me. Brady does it all the time.”

Castiel considers this for a moment as well. Then he walks to the couch, sits stiffly into the corner, as far from Sam as he can get. Brady. There’s that name again. Castiel wonders if he’ll meet this Brady; if this Brady knows he’s here.

As if Sam can read minds, he says, “I let Brady know you’re here, just so you know. I didn’t say anything other than you’re a friend who needs somewhere to stay. But...he’s my boyfriend, so I don’t feel right hiding this from him. Is that...is that okay?”

‘Yes,’ Castiel writes. 

Sam deflates with obvious relief when he reads this. “Good. Here, go nuts.” He tosses a tiny oblong object into Castiel’s lap.

Castiel picks it up to examine it. It’s black, smooth on three sides. On one side it’s covered with...buttons?

“That’s a remote,” Sam says patiently. “It controls the TV. Which...um. Shows movies and shows? I’m not really sure how to explain it.”

Castiel just nods. He presses the largest button on the remote and subsequently startles in surprise as the big black box in the front of the room flares to life in a cacophony of light and sound.

He turns to Sam, eyes wide with surprise, to find an explanation.

Sam is, paradoxically, managing to look half-saddened and half-amused. “That’s the TV, Cas. You’re fine.”

There’s silence for a while. Castiel figures out how to work the remote to change the...channel, he believes Sam said, and Sam is absorbed in whatever it is that he’s reading, neon yellow writing utensil in hand and gliding over certain passages, the neon yellow cap sticking out of the corner of his mouth, wiggling absently as he chews on it. At least, Castiel is assuming he’s chewing on it.

Castiel thinks they’ve sat there for over an hour before Sam yawns and snaps the book shut. “I think I’m going to go to bed,” he says. “You’re free to do whatever you like. Just...if you decide to leave, let me know?”

Castiel nods slowly, and Sam disappears down the hallway. 

He doesn’t know what to make of the feeling in his chest at Sam’s request. He doesn’t quite understand why Sam would care whether or not Castiel is still here; why he’d want to be notified of Castiel leaving. Castiel is a stranger to him. In fact, Castiel suspects that he’s going to become nothing but trouble.

It doesn’t quite matter, he decides. He has nowhere to go unless he’d like to go back to the circus, and he can’t do that until he has a better formed plan.

While Sam sleeps, snoring filling the otherwise quiet apartment now that Castiel’s turned the TV off, Castiel plans.

He has never written so much as he does that night; the whiteboard is filled with tiny scrawl. He writes in Enochian, which makes the whole process faster.

For once, Castiel forgets about keeping track of how much time has gone by.


	8. VIII.

Castiel has just about run out of space on the whiteboard, and is contemplating writing notes onto the skin of his arms to be transcribed later, when heavy footsteps alert him to Sam’s waking presence. 

He looks up and over. Sam is padding down the hallway, barefoot, eyes bleary. His long, shaggy hair is a mess, sticking up and out in odd directions. 

Castiel nods to him when Sam catches his eye.

“Morning, Cas,” Sam says through a yawn. He pads into the kitchen, starts a machine

on the counter that starts to whirr and spill a dark liquid into a clear pot at the bottom of it, and then comes over to lean against the back of the couch, squinting at Castiel’s whiteboard.

“Whatcha writin’?”

Castiel doesn’t answer. He can’t; there’s no space on the whiteboard and until he commits this to memory, he can’t erase it. The plan isn’t finalized; he can’t memorize it yet.

“Here,” Sam says, “You need some paper?”

Castiel nods, and Sam digs through the backpack sitting next to the couch. It’s the same one he’d pointed out on their car ride here; in the daylight it looks old and worn, a couple of the seams a hairsbreadth from bursting.

Sam hands him a pad of paper. Castiel knows this is paper; he’s seen Crowley with it a couple of times. He finds that the marker for the whiteboard works just fine; carefully, he transcribes all of his notes onto the paper and then wipes the whiteboard clean.

‘Plan,’ he writes.

Sam’s face furrows with confusion. “Plan? Plan for what?”

‘Wings. Circus.’

Sam’s head snaps up so fast from the whiteboard to Castiel that his neck must hurt. 

“What?” he says in a flat, low voice. “What about wings and the circus?”

Castiel swallows. He should refrain from telling Sam. Sam seems the type of helpful that’s reckless; the kind of eager goodhearted that will get him killed.

He should refrain from telling Sam, but...he almost doesn’t want to.

‘My wings. At circus. Need them.’

Sam’s face doesn’t get any less alarmed. If anything, his eyes only pop wider with surprise. “Your wings are _there_?” he breathes. “They’re still at the circus?”

Castiel just nods.

Sam makes a noise in the back of his throat. His hands come up and push his floppy bangs off of his forehead, fingers scraping back to his scalp. 

“Jesus, Cas,” he mutters. “You should have let me know when we were there. I could have--we could have gotten them then.”

Castiel shakes his head so hard everything blurs in front of him. For good measure, he scrawls a giant, emphatic NO on the whiteboard.

“Well, why not?” Sam says. He sounds put out, and perhaps a little annoyed.

‘Danger.’

Sam rolls his eyes. “If I was that worried about things being dangerous, I never would have come to smuggle you out in the first place.”

Castiel makes a face at him. It’s probably the first time he’s glared at someone without immediate repercussion.

‘Danger,’ he writes again. ‘Get hurt. Get killed.’

“I’m not gonna die from smuggling angel wings out of a circus,” Sam says. “Come on, man, just let me help you.”

Castiel grinds his teeth together. It makes an ugly sound, but it’s some sort of outlet for his irritation. Stupid human. Stupid, naive, reckless human.

‘No,’ he writes again, and then tosses the whiteboard across the room. There. End of discussion. 

Sam huffs. He starts gesturing with his hands, and it takes Castiel a moment, but then he registers that Sam’s speaking to him in sign language. It makes him think of Gabriel.

‘You’re being ridiculous,’ Sam signs. ‘I’m offering to help you. Obviously your wings are important since you’re a fucking angel. Just let me fucking help.’

‘No,’ Castiel signs back. Then he turns his back on Sam so that he doesn’t have to see whatever Sam signs.

“Fine,” Sam snaps. “You’re fucking stubborn, you know that?”

Yes. Castiel has been told that endlessly since he was brought into existence. By his brothers and sisters. By Crowley and his goons. And now by Sam.

Neither of them make an effort to speak again for a little while. Things bang around in the kitchen as Sam does the work to prepare something, and Castiel stares out the window.

It’s not raining. There’s watery, just-risen sunlight casting weak shadows and shining into the room. It’s rather lovely.

He’s pulled away from the window by the sound of a chair scraping across the floor. Sam’s sitting down at the kitchen table, a plate of something yellow and puffy in front of him. Castiel thinks those are eggs.

Sam catches him looking. Castiel almost expects immediate irritation, a scathing comment, something that he’s grown used to through Crowley and Lucifer and Michael.

Instead, Sam offers him the tiniest of smiles. “I’m...uh, I’m sorry, Cas. It’s not really my place to insist on anything when I’ve just met you.”

Castiel blinks. He signs ‘Thank you, Sam,’ and then pauses for a moment before adding, ‘I’m sorry, too.’

Sam’s smile grows a little bit. He nods toward the chair across from him. “You can come sit, if you want.”

Castiel thinks it over for a moment. Sam’s looking at him as earnestly as he always seems to; his hazel eyes give away the hope simmering under his skin. His hair, shagging down over his forehead and around his ears in soft brown swoops, only makes him look that much younger. That much more human.

Castiel goes to sit with him. 

“If you’re wondering why I’m here and not in class,” Sam says, “it’s Saturday.”

Hmm. Saturday. It has been so very long since Castiel was able to keep track of what day of the week it was; he made a valiant effort, in the beginning, but like everything else he made a valiant effort at, he gave up eventually.

Castiel nods to him. 

Sam keeps talking. “We have the day to ourselves, but Brady’s getting back tonight. You’ll like him. He’s a good guy.”

_He must be good to be with you_ , Castiel thinks, and then almost recoils at the surprise of it. 

He has just met this human. This human _boy_. This human _kid_. Angels do not take lovers; even if they did, Castiel isn’t so sure he’d deserve to. 

He most certainly shouldn’t be...appraising Sam. That is what just happened, isn’t it? A mortal thing, judgment. He has known Sam for only a night and this morning; that surely isn’t long enough for him to assume anything about Sam’s relationship or Sam’s character.

Yet, here he is, hoping this Brady is good enough to deserve a man like Sam.

Castiel blinks himself out of his thoughts. Sam is frowning at him.

“You good?” he asks. “You zoned out for a second.”

Castiel nods. _Yes, fine_.

Sam seems to accept this. He finishes off his meal--if Castiel remembers correctly, this morning meal is called breakfast--and stands to drop his plate into the deep basin up against the wall. It has a faucet; Castiel wants to say it’s called a sink.

“So,” Sam says, returning to the table. “I don’t have anything I absolutely need to get done today. Did you have anything you wanted to do? Now that you’re away from that hellhole?”

Castiel is a little surprised by the vitriol in Sam’s voice. Crowley is a master at schemes; a master at masks and theatrics. Castiel has no doubt that the circus comes across to most of its patrons as perfect and dreamy, which makes Sam’s clear distaste unusual. Although...he _did_ break Castiel out of a glorified cage.

‘I don’t know what the world is like now,’ Castiel admits, and as Sam watches him sign, his face falls.

Castiel thinks Sam looks a bit puppyish when he gets this look on his face; eyebrows knit together, eyes big and round and oceans deep with sadness, mouth pulled down at the corners.

“Well,” Sam says after a moment. “Sometimes on Saturdays I like to go for a hike or a bike ride. There’s this one trail I know that nobody’s ever on. Would you want to do that with me?”

Sam looks a bit puppyish with that hope on his face, too.

Castiel nods. Sam’s face splits into a huge grin.

“I’ll lend you some more clothes,” he says. “You’ll get hot in that sweatshirt.”

Castiel just nods to this, too. His body cannot overheat, but trying to help seems to be ingrained in Sam’s nature. Castiel will not deny him twice today.

Sam disappears down the hallway. He returns a few minutes later, wearing different clothes and carrying a bundle in his arms. He holds it out to Castiel.

Castiel takes it. He walks back to the bathroom, shuts the door behind him, twists the lock like Sam had shown him how to do last night.

Sam’s given him a gray t-shirt to wear. This one also has the word “Stanford” across the chest in scarlet letters. It’s smaller than the sweatshirt; actually fits Castiel quite well.

The pants are coarse blue fabric; Castiel can feel individual threads when he runs his fingers across them. Unlike the sweatpants with their little tied knot to keep them up, these pants have a button and a zipper. 

Castiel thinks the button and zipper _should_ mean that the pants stay on, but they creep down his waist, settling low on his hips. Too low. He’s fairly sure they might fall off.

Sam seems to notice this first when Castiel walks back out into the living area.

His eyes sweep down Castiel’s body, lingering on the pants hanging off of his hips, the strip of skin visible between the hem of the shirt and the waistband of the pants.

Sam swallows, eyes dark. His ears are red when he looks Castiel in the eyes. “Those jeans, uh...they’re a little big on you, huh, Cas?”

‘I think so,’ Castiel signs.

“I’ll, uh.” Sam clears his throat, already moving down the hallway. “I’ll go see if I can find a belt for you to wear.”

Castiel recognizes ‘belt.’ There were belts when he was among humans the last time. ‘Jeans,’ however, are new to him; he looks down at them baggy around his legs and mouths the word to himself.

Sam’s ears aren’t red anymore when he comes back, holding a brown belt. It looks exactly the same as Castiel expects it to. 

Sam doesn’t quite look him in the eyes when he hands over the belt, though. Castiel takes it and slips it on, tightens it until the jeans fall where they should.

When he looks up, Sam’s across the room, pulling something out of one of the kitchen cabinets. 

“So, the trail we’re going to I really love,” Sam says. “There’s usually nobody on it and it’s just...I don’t know, peaceful. Nice.” He shuts the cabinet and turns around. “But it is kinda long. It’ll probably take us most of the day. Is that alright?”

‘That’s fine,’ Castiel signs. 

Sam grins.

Oh, Heaven help Castiel. A mortal has no business having a smile that alluring.


	9. IX.

Castiel misses the sky.

This is the conclusion he comes to only a few weeks into being Crowley’s circus animal.

From Heaven, the sky wasn’t visible. You were either looking down onto the humans as if through a clear glass lid or you were absorbed in your surroundings, and either way, there was no blue sky, no fluffy clouds.

Castiel had fallen in love with the sky the moment he stepped foot on Earth for the first time. It was the middle of the night. The never-ending expanse overhead was a deep cobalt, spattered with the bright pinpricks of stars.

But here, in Crowley’s grasp, in his _cage_ , Castiel can’t see the sky. Well, maybe that’s a lie. He can see it through the door of this damned traincar he’s in. But it isn’t enough. The tiny square he can see only makes him think of the rest that’s missing. It is a swatch of fabric against an entire quilt.

Castiel misses a lot of things, here. He misses his brothers and sisters, even if he has always been the odd one of the garrison. He misses his wings. He misses his freedom.

He prays every night. He can no longer hear the other angels; can no longer hear people’s prayers. That ability was cut out of him right along with his wings.

A lot of things were. The emptiness in him hurts more than he’d ever expect it to.

Nobody answers his prayers. He’s not sure why he expects any differently.

* * *

The trail Sam takes them to is tucked away against a tiny parking lot off a skinny back road. It is secluded and the trail is denoted, just barely, by flattened grass, but Sam seems to know where they’re going.

Sam told him on the way here that it is almost the end of September. The last month Castiel remembers being aware of is June, and that definitely was not this year.

As such, fall in Palo Alto is settling into full swing. The leaves on the trees are waterbrushed red, green, yellow.

It’s beautiful. And peaceful. And perfect.

The quiet settles into Castiel’s bones. They hike for a good ten minutes or so without speaking at all, and Castiel soaks up the companionable silence the same way he basks in the leaf-dappled sunlight that breaks through the cover of the trees at some points.

“What do you think?” Sam says after a while. They’ve paused in one of those little sunny spots and Sam’s drinking some water.

‘I love this,’ Castiel signs.

Sam grins. The sunlight makes him look quite nice, Castiel realizes. It makes his hair shine, makes his eyes look that much more pretty. It highlights the tan in his skin.

Oh, Castiel needs to get a grip. There’s too much going on for him to start fawning over anybody. Even if they’re very nice. Too nice.

Oh, look, leaves. Very interesting leaves. Much more interesting than thinking.

“So,” Sam says when they’re walking again. “There’s one path that takes us up to something of a hill, so we’ll be able to look over a bit of a valley, and there’s one that just takes us deeper into the woods and leads us to a little waterfall. Which one would you rather we take?”

‘Hill,’ Castiel signs immediately. 

So they hike. They maintain a meandering conversation, which mostly consists of Sam asking random questions like “do you have a favorite color?” and “what about a favorite animal?” and telling him random facts about trees they pass or tidbits from his classes.

Castiel doesn’t follow most of the things that Sam says about school. But Sam’s face is so bright when he speaks, his whole demeanor so relaxed, that Castiel would never dream of telling him to stop.

Castiel is also a little impressed by the fact that Sam isn’t bombarding him with questions. For someone who has just rescued a falling angel, he seems completely at ease to leave the subject alone entirely.

There aren’t words to describe how grateful Castiel is for this. He doesn’t have to rip himself to pieces trying to explain Heaven and God and the story of creation. Sam isn’t asking him _why this_ or _why that_ or _how come this_. 

Castiel thinks maybe in the far, far future, it will be easy to pretend he was never an angel in the first place. As long as he’s with Sam, who is easygoing and doesn’t seem inclined to pry, then he can shove all of that way behind him.

These are the last thoughts that run through Castiel’s head before they crest the top of the hill they’re on. The trees are a little more sparse up here, and Sam guides him right over to a spot that’s completely clear.

Castiel looks at Sam, and then he looks forward, and his breath catches.

There’s a valley below them. The tops of trees stretch up to try to scrape the sky, airbrushed red and yellow and green.

A rush of emotion makes Castiel’s throat ache. The Grace in him aches to spread his wings; all his back does is ache.

“Pretty, right?” Sam says.

All Castiel can manage is a nod.

“I took Brady here as one of our first dates,” Sam continues. “I think he just went along with it because he likes me. I think it all just looked like woods to him.”

Castiel sees far more than just woods. He sees beauty. He sees the strokes of a divine paintbrush. He sees flight.

And there isn’t a single of the things he sees that doesn’t cause him pain.

Sam stays there, standing with him, for a while. Castiel doesn’t keep track, but he knows it’s at least several minutes.

And when Castiel can’t take looking at it anymore and turns away, Sam turns with him, and they start walking away, and Sam doesn’t say a word.

Their hike back to Sam’s car is much quieter. Sam only offers a few offhand observations of things on the path, but otherwise maintains a steady silence.

This is fine. Castiel is busy soaking up all of this Earth that he’s on that he possibly can. As painful as it continues to be, the fresh air and the falling leaves are like a balm on Castiel’s wounds.

He is here. He is free. There is no more cage.

He basks in the sunlight spots, breathes in, and _exists_.

* * *

When they pull into the parking lot of Sam’s apartment, he gets noticeably excited at the sight of a dark blue car in the parking space next to his.

“That’s Brady’s car,” Sam explains. One of those bright smiles is back on his face. “He’s back early.”

Immediately, Castiel feels a jolt of alarm.

One stranger is one thing. Sam has already proven himself to be, at the very least, trustworthy enough not to kill him.

Castiel isn’t sure he likes the idea of adding someone else to the mix.

Sam doesn’t seem to notice his worry. He practically bolts through the complex to get to their apartment. Castiel keeps up easily, but Sam isn’t even looking for him.

Sam is practically vibrating with excitement as he opens his door. Castiel follows him inside in time to see a lean, shrewd-faced boy with cropped dark hair rise from the kitchen table.

Sam runs right into his arms.

Castiel wants to be anywhere other than here.


	10. X.

Castiel doesn’t know what to do. He stands awkwardly just inside the door, trying not to stare at Sam and Brady.

Sam is talking a mile a minute. In between sentences Brady keeps pulling him into kisses. Sam seems to have forgotten Castiel exists, and Brady seems to not have noticed him at all yet.

Humans. God’s proudest work and his weirdest.

Castiel is staring out the window when Sam finally pulls away from Brady long enough to remember him. 

“Oh,” Sam says. “Brady, this is my, uh, my old friend, Castiel. Castiel, this is my boyfriend, Brady.”

Castiel turns. He nods to Brady.

Brady doesn’t nod back. He’s eying Castiel almost disdainfully, and Castiel feels, quite suddenly, like the caged angel all over again.

Brady doesn’t say anything to Castiel. He turns to Sam and starts speaking in a hushed voice.

Castiel doesn’t pick up on most of it. But he does pick up on “Another Dean situation” and “You’re on your own if having a friend here makes things hard for you.”

Sam looks displeased. He doesn’t interrupt Brady, but his brow is furrowed and his eyes have gone a little dark with what seems like anger.

Brady doesn’t particularly seem to care.

Castiel decides he definitely does not like this Brady very much at all.

Sam’s whispering back to Brady now. Castiel can’t pick up on his words, but he can pick up on the agitated tone of Sam’s voice.

Then Brady turns to Castiel.

“You,” he says, pointing at Castiel’s chest. “You stay away from Sam, you hear? Old friend or no, I don’t need him hurt.”

Castiel just stares at him.

Brady’s lip curls. “What, you’re ignoring me? That’s real mature. You know, this is technically my apartment. I decide I don’t like you, I will kick you out.”

“Brady,” Sam snaps. “Stop. Castiel doesn’t speak. Don’t be a dick.”

Oh. Sam is...defending him.

Brady blinks. “Well...that goes double, then. You find a way to communicate or you get out.”

Sam steps forward. Away from Brady. Toward Castiel. And he turns his back to Castiel, facing Brady, as if he’s...shielding him. Protecting him.

“Knock it off,” Sam says. His voice is low and angry, and the intensity of it catches Castiel just a little off guard. “This is _our_ apartment, not just yours. You can be nice to Cas, or _you_ can get out.”

“Fine,” Brady says tightly. “I have to unpack anyway. I’ll be in our room.”

He stomps his way to the bedroom, and the slamming door makes Castiel jump, just a little.

Sam sighs. He’s clearly agitated.

‘I’m sorry,’ Castiel signs.

Sam shakes his head. “It’s alright, Cas. He’s...he’s probably just tired.”

They stand in silence for a moment before Sam sighs again. “I should do some laundry today. You wanna come with?”

Castiel nods. He’s not sure that he remembers seeing a body of water around for Sam to wash clothing in, but he’ll follow along regardless.

Sam disappears into the bathroom, then into the bedroom, and then comes back bearing a big red basket full of clothing.

He nods to the apartment door, and off they go.

Sam leads him down the hall, down two flights of stairs, and down another hallway. They go through a door and into a room full of machines.

Most of them are silent and still, but a few are shaking in place and whirring.

Sam continues into the room like this isn’t a big deal at all. Castiel stops in the doorway.

“Oh,” Sam says after he’s put the basket down in front of one of the quiet machines. Castiel must have quite the expression on his face, because Sam has that incredibly paradoxical look again, like this is simultaneously amusing him and causing him great despair. “Uh...Cas, it’s alright. These are washing machines and dryers. We use them to do laundry.”

Castiel steps into the room at that. Sam’s piqued his interest, and he watches with rapt attention as Sam drops soap and clothing into one such ‘washing machine,’ shuts the lid, feeds it coins, and pushes a button.

The machine starts to whir. Through the clear top, the clothes can be seen spinning in a circle.

Castiel glances at Sam.

“Yeah, pretty cool, right?” Sam says. “Makes life a lot easier.”

Castiel nods.

It’s quiet for a while. Sam heads back upstairs to grab more laundry, and Castiel remains with the machines, running his fingers over the smooth white plastic. The ones that are running tremor underneath his fingertips.

When Sam comes back, Castiel isn’t planning to speak. But then Sam enters the room and offers Castiel a small smile.

“Thank you.” Castiel’s voice is rough. It sounds like his throat has been filled with broken glass.

Sam blinks at him. His eyes go wide. “Uh...You’re welcome, Cas.”

Castiel finds that he almost wants to keep talking. It’s a funny thing. Nearly two hundred years of not a word, and in the past days alone, Castiel has spoken to this one mortal more than once.

But then Sam turns back to the washing machine, Castiel’s mind catches up with him, and the words die in his throat.

* * *

The first few days that Brady is back are tense. Even from his short stay, Castiel has gotten used to Sam being kind and easygoing.

Brady is certainly not easygoing, and he leaves much to desire in the way of kindness.

Castiel doesn’t quite get why they’re together. Sam and Brady are quite nearly complete opposites, and Sam seems to grow annoyed or upset much more often with Brady around.

Brady has also made it extremely clear that he dislikes Castiel. If he even acknowledges Castiel’s existence at all, it is to make snide comments or say something passive-aggressive to Sam.

Castiel waits every time for Sam to tell Brady the truth. He waits for the bomb to drop that he is an angel of the Lord.

It never comes. Sam stands by Castiel being an old friend, even when Brady grows suspicious of the fact that Sam’s never mentioned him in the past. He defends Castiel in the face of Brady’s remarks, often with vitriol that seems to surprise even Brady.

Things almost seem to settle into a routine. Sam and Brady disappear for most of the day to go to “campus” and “classes” and return in the afternoons tired and grumpy. Castiel reads the books Sam tells him he’s free to read or simply walks through the apartment, taking things in and often pausing to stare out of the windows. Sam usually makes them something to eat, throwing in lines about Castiel having eaten already. Brady tends to disappear again after that, and Sam takes a shower and then curls onto the corner of the couch to do work on his laptop and comb through textbooks while Castiel explores the television. By the time Brady returns, Sam has stopped doing work and sprawled more fully onto the couch, where he watches television with Castiel. Brady changes clothes and joins them. He says not a word to Castiel but will engage Sam in conversation. Sam and Brady cuddle on the couch for a while before retiring to bed. Castiel spends his nights after they’ve gone writing endless plans in the pad of paper Sam gave him.

Slowly, he’s working out the kinks. The plan he’s beginning to build should end up being flawless.

And then there’s one night where Castiel shuts his eyes to blink and they don’t come open again for hours.


	11. XI.

Castiel comes around slowly. This sensation is alien; he feels as though his senses are entrenched in honey, stuck slow and syrupy.

There’s a voice near his head. It’s low and soft and steeped in confusion.

Castiel opens his eyes. He’s now laying on the couch, head cocked at an awkward angle against one armrest and feet curled against the other.

Sam’s kneeling in front of him. He’s still in the t-shirt and pants that count as his sleepwear and his hair is a mess; he must have just woken up.

Castiel blinks at him. Sam’s face is scrunched with uncertainty; there’s an almost shocking amount of concern flaring in his eyes.

“Cas,” Sam says quietly. “Are you...are you alright?”

‘I...don’t know,’ Castiel signs.

Sam’s face falls even further. “You fell asleep. I thought you weren’t supposed to fall asleep.”

Castiel _isn’t_ supposed to fall asleep. Sleep is a human necessity. 

It serves as an exquisitely painful reminder that Castiel is running out of time.

Sam looks like he’s about to say something else, but then Brady comes down the hallway and Sam steps away so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t trip over himself.

This stings too.

Castiel and Sam don’t get another chance to talk before Sam and Brady are leaving for the day.

Castiel gets off the couch. He goes into the bathroom, turns on the light, and stares at himself in the mirror.

He doesn’t really _look_ any different. This vessel has defied aging for as long as Castiel has inhabited it, even after the soul of Jimmy Novak rose to Heaven.

This isn’t a vessel anymore. This is a _body_. Castiel’s body. And with every passing minute, he’s growing more and more aware of how distant his grace feels. Truthfully, it has been distant for a long time. Calling upon it to help Pamela was always more difficult than it should have been.

But now, even reaching for it, Castiel can’t seem to find it.

His grace is ebbing away from him. Soon enough, he will stare into this mirror as a full mortal, with nothing to remind him of what was other than the memories in his head and the scars on his back.

His back. Castiel pulls his shirt off and turns, examining his shoulder blades in the mirror. The wounds that have wept with him for years are finally showing more definitive signs of healing.

For anyone else, this would be a good thing. Healing is ordinarily positive, after all. For Castiel, it is nothing but an omen.

If he doesn’t go back to Crowley’s circus for his wings soon, it’ll be too late.

* * *

Sam and Brady return as they always do, bearing book bags and tired demeanors. Brady pulls out his laptop and drops into a chair at the kitchen table, clicking away at the keys as Sam begins to gather things to make food.

Castiel is almost feverishly running through his plan. The urgency of it has seeped into his bones; it makes his skin itch.

He thinks he’ll go tonight. He’ll sneak out while Sam and Brady are asleep. If all goes to plan, he’ll return just once to thank Sam and say his farewells, and then he’ll be able to finally return to Heaven. 

Sam and Brady eat dinner. Brady leaves. Sam does work and watches TV with Castiel. Brady returns. Brady and Sam retire to bed.

Castiel gives his plans a once-over. Then works out a few last-minute issues. Then starts to feel odd. It’s like his mind has been engulfed in a fog; his body feels heavy.

Castiel goes through the plan one last time, just to be thorough. Before he reaches the end of it, he is asleep.

* * *

Castiel is in Heaven. 

At least, what _should_ be Heaven. The sprawling fields and elegant buildings he is used to have deteriorated. There are no souls roaming the fields or sitting on the porches of their Heavenly homes.

The grass is brown and dead. It crunches and coughs up puffs of dust under Castiel’s feet. 

The buildings are dark and silent. There are vines engulfing entire walls. Some have been reduced to piles of rubble.

Castiel is in Heaven, but he is not in _his_ Heaven. His Heaven was bright and beautiful; the haven it was told to be.

This Heaven is barren and cold and heartbreaking.

“Hello?” Castiel calls. His voice echoes, the Enochian word bouncing back at him from a thousand different directions. “Brothers? Sisters?”

A door bangs. An angel stumbles out, down the steps, toward Castiel.

“Duma,” he calls.

Duma staggers toward him. Her wings are torn, ravaged; she cannot fly. Black sludge pours from her orifices like an oil slick. 

“Castiel,” she rasps. She blinks and more oily black slides down her face. “It’s here. Because of you.”

“What’s here?” Castiel asks.

Duma falls. Castiel catches her, and she spasms in his grasp. 

“The Empty,” Duma breathes. “You left, and the Empty is here.”

A high-pitched whine starts to spread through the field. Castiel looks behind them. The field is being eaten away, black sludge coming in like the tide.

Angels are screaming. Castiel can hear them, from all around. Their despair is excruciating, and if he wasn’t holding Duma, Castiel would cover his ears.

Duma pulls in an unearthly gasp. Castiel watches the light fade from her eyes.

The angels get louder. The sludge grows closer, and closer, and it’s cold against Castiel’s feet.

He blinks. It streams from his eyes like tears.

Castiel inhales. He goes to call for his brothers and sisters. 

* * *

And wakes on Sam’s couch, yelling. He rolls right off of the couch and hits the floor with a heavy thud.

There are noises from down the hall. Footsteps. Sam appears in the mouth of the hallway, looking alarmed. He flips one of the lights on, casting the living area in a yellow glow.

The shock doesn’t seem to fade when he sees Castiel dragging himself up off of the carpet.

‘I’m alright,’ Castiel signs shakily. 

‘You screamed,’ Sam signs back. ‘What happened?’

Castiel just stares at him. He doesn’t really know what just happened. He knows he must have fallen asleep again, and he’s heard of the fact that humans experience dreams, but there’s no way that he should be dreaming. Not now. Not yet.

‘Was that a dream?’ Sam signs. ‘Shouldn’t you not be able to dream?’

‘I don’t know,’ Castiel signs back. 

Sam swallows. They stare at each other for a long, long moment. Sam’s hands twitch. He folds his arms.

Castiel breaks eye contact first, turning to stare out the window.

Sam sighs quietly from behind him. “Cas,” he whispers in a sleep-worn voice. “I...can I help?”

_You can_ , Castiel thinks bitterly. _But you shouldn’t._

He shakes his head.

Sam sighs again. He mumbles something about going back to bed and disappears back down the hallway.

Castiel doesn’t fall back to sleep that night. Humans have very intriguing, very mind-numbing late-night television.


	12. XII.

The next thing to become clear in Castiel’s falling is hunger.

It’s been a week. Castiel has been falling asleep every night. Sam is, at times, practically buzzing with concern, but in Brady’s presence, can’t say a word about it.

Then there’s one night, while Sam is preparing dinner, that Castiel realizes he _wants_ some of it.

Sam doesn’t seem to think anything of it when Castiel comes up next to him in the kitchen, going about stirring the concoction in the pan.

But there isn’t a word for the shock on his face when Castiel signs ‘can I try some of that?’

‘Cas,’ Sam signs frantically, having dropped the spoon he was holding. ‘What...are you hungry?’

Castiel nods. The shock on Sam’s face turns to something heavier, something more grim and frustrated.

‘At least,’ Castiel signs, ‘I am assuming this is hunger. That...that smells quite good. I’m salivating in anticipation.’

“Fuck,” Sam mutters. 

Castiel’s first meal in his existence is, Sam mentions nonchalantly, something called ‘spaghetti.’ It’s extraordinarily long strands of dough, cooked to be a bit slippery and soft, covered in red ‘tomato sauce,’ adorned by ‘meatballs.’ 

It...tastes very good. Castiel likes it, even if the fact that he _wants_ it makes him want to break down weeping.

This is a problem. This is a very big problem.

Every night, Castiel takes a shower. Over the past week, the wounds on his back have been healing more and more. 

If Castiel thought he was running out of time last week, it’s nothing compared to the reality now.

Castiel needs his wings back, and fast.

Castiel doesn’t get an opportunity over the weekend, but on Monday, while Sam and Brady are gone, Castiel dons the same clothes and takes the same boots Sam lent him for that hike, scrawls out a note, and leaves the apartment.

Castiel doesn’t quite know where he’s going, but he does manage to make it out of the building and to the center of town.

That’s where Castiel begins to get confused. If this had been the 1800s, Castiel could have navigated this area quite easily, having known the layout of Earth like the back of his wings.

But things have changed so much, and there are so many things packed together...Castiel simply picks a direction and starts off, assuming that at the very least he’ll reach some sort of marker that can help him. Maybe somewhere where he can procure a map.

That...isn’t how things end up going. Castiel wanders in several different meandering directions, getting more and more confused and frustrated, for at least an hour. Truth be told, he has no idea how long it’s been since he left Sam’s apartment.

Castiel also begins to feel strangely overheated. It shouldn’t be possible; he isn’t fully human yet and shouldn’t experience everything a human does, but he can feel his hair slowly dampening with sweat and his joints growing weak in the face of too much warmth.

It’s unnerving, to say the least, and adds an edge of desperation to Castiel’s confused wandering.

Eventually, he admits defeat. For the past too-long, he’s been going in the same circle, and his body feels drained, weak. It’s a sensation Castiel has never felt before, and he can feel fear sinking into his bones like a noxious fog.

He drops to sit against a building, knees scrunched up to his chest. He’s shaking with tremors and the uncomfortable overheated sensation has yet to leave him.

Castiel doesn’t know how long he sits there for. Occasionally a pedestrian passes him; a couple of them look him in the eyes, grow visibly distressed, and pick up the pace.

Castiel has his head leaned back against the rough bricks, eyes shut, when there’s a loud, unpleasant screeching sound, the sound of a car door opening, and hurried footsteps.

“Cas!” That’s Sam’s voice.

Castiel opens his eyes, looking sluggishly around for Sam. 

The footsteps are approaching from his left. He looks over just in time to see Sam rushing toward him, concern pouring off of him in waves. It’s in his eyes, in the set of his mouth, in the tenseness of his posture and the urgent pace of his steps.

“Cas,” Sam says again, dropping to his knees in front of where Castiel’s sitting. “Oh my god, I was so worried! I saw your note--I couldn’t let you just leave like that, I really couldn’t. What’s going on? Are you alright? I’ve been looking for you for half an hour, got home and left right away.”

Before Castiel can react, Sam’s whole face goes blank and pale with surprise.

“Your eyes,” he whispers. “Cas, your eyes are _glowing_. Glowing _blue_.”

Castiel blinks. ‘My Grace,’ he signs with shaking, clammy hands. ‘My eyes glow blue with Grace.’

Sam swallows. “Are you...are you using your Grace right now? Is that what that would mean? Because your eyes have never done that before…”

‘I’m not using any Grace at the moment,’ Castiel signs. His chest aches; suddenly, his whole body feels overly heavy with despair.

He is about to die an angel’s death. He has to be losing the rest of his Grace; that has to be what this is. It makes Castiel feel as though he’s suddenly run out of air despite never needing to breathe.

“Cas,” Sam says softly, face scrunched with concern and sympathy. “We’ll figure it out. Is this...is this why you left?”

Castiel shakes his head miserably. He clears his throat. “Tried to find the circus. I’m afraid I didn’t know the right way to get there.”

It’s the most he’s ever said to Sam, and the young man’s face certainly reflects that, eyes popped a little wider with surprise.

“Okay,” Sam says. He pulls in a deep breath. “Well, I can help you get there. I’m...you were going back for your wings, weren’t you?”

Castiel nods.

“Okay,” Sam says again. “Why don’t...it’s going to get dark in a little bit, so we can go tomorrow. I don’t have any important classes anyway.”

Castiel really doesn’t know what to say to that. But he knows in situations like these, sometimes with feelings of extreme gratitude, humans tend to embrace each other, so he reaches forward and latches his arms around Sam, one arm hooked over his shoulders and the other looping around his waist. 

Sam sucks in a sharp breath of surprise. His hands rest feather-light on Castiel’s back, but they don’t even make his wounds ache.

“You’re...you’re welcome, Cas,” Sam says in a slightly strained voice. “I...I don’t mind helping you get your wings back, man.”

Castiel pulls in a wavering breath, his chin hooked over Sam’s shoulder. They stay like that for a moment, quietly wrapped around each other, before Castiel pulls away.

Sam looks at him for a long moment, face full of uncertainty. He seems to be about to say something, but then must think better of it and clears his throat instead.

“We should get back,” Sam says. “Brady’s waiting for us, and you’re probably tired.”

Castiel is tired, alarmingly so. Weariness has seeped into every cell in his body, it seems. Even standing up seems to take a lot out of him, and he sways slightly on the spot, prompting Sam to grab him by the elbow to steady him. 

Sam’s making that concerned face again. It looks puppyish on him, what with his youthful face and his floppy hair. “You okay?”

Castiel nods. He’s refusing to admit the truth. He is far from okay. He is losing yet another piece of him, and it fills him with a pain so raw and cutting he thinks that if he isn’t careful, he may drown in it.

Sam doesn’t say anything as they make their way to his car. Castiel drops into the passenger seat, leans his head back against the headrest, and drifts nearly into sleep while Sam drives.

He must actually fall asleep at some point, because he wakes to Sam’s sober, worried face and a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“We’re home,” Sam explains. “Are you sure you’re alright? Your eyes are still glowing.”

Castiel just looks at him for a moment, but then Sam’s mouth drops with realization.

“ _Shit_ ,” he says. “Your eyes are glowing. Brady can’t see you like that, or we’ll have to tell him the truth.”

Castiel gazes at him tiredly. Sam’s eyes are an odd color Castiel can’t quite put his finger on. They remind Castiel of sunflowers, maybe, or of looking at a sunny field through the lens of a kaleidoscope. 

“Let me text him,” Sam says. “Sometimes he goes out on Monday nights…”

Sam’s voice is quite nice, Castiel decides. Has a nice timbre to it. Castiel would gladly listen to it for a long time.

There’s quiet for a few minutes. Sam alternates between glaring impatiently at his phone and gazing worriedly at Castiel. 

Finally, Sam’s phone dings. His eyes--his beautiful, beautiful eyes--scan his screen rapidly as he reads whatever Brady sent, and he wilts in relief.

“Brady has an out-of-town lecture tomorrow. He’ll be gone until at least tomorrow night.” He peers at Castiel. “Will that be enough time to get your eyes under control? Or, well, I guess getting your wings will do that…”

Castiel just nods. Sam seems to be satisfied with that, and they walk in a content silence up to Sam’s apartment. Brady is indeed absent, and Castiel has never been more grateful to see their beat-up couch.

Sam doesn’t seem surprised that Castiel makes straight for the couch, but he does still seem concerned.

Castiel falls into an uneasy sleep before he even hears Sam lock the door.


	13. XIII.

“I don’t know, Dean. He’s asleep, I can’t shove a thermometer into his mouth. He just feels really, really fucking hot.”

Castiel feels vaguely like he’s fighting a battle as he wakes up. His body feels uncomfortably baked; he wonders if this is what humans feel when sunburned. There’s something shockingly cool pressed over his forehead, and Sam’s voice, urgent and vaguely annoyed.

“Well, what did you do for me? You--thanks, Dean, that’s not helpful at all. Oh my god--whether or not I’m cheating on Brady isn’t what you should be asking me right now. I’m trying to keep his brain from frying, not fuck him.”

Castiel hums, turning his head. Whatever is on his forehead recoils quickly.

“Shit, Dean, gimme a sec--Cas? You with me?”

Castiel forces his eyes open. Sam’s sitting on the coffee table, leaning forward toward the couch. His face is scrunched with concern, his eyes ablaze with worry. 

‘Sam,’ Castiel signs.

“Oh, thank God,” Sam breathes. “Dean, I’ll call you later. I gotta go....yeah yeah, shut up.”

Sam hangs up the phone, drops it onto the coffee table next to him, and leans even further forward. 

“Cas,” he says, dragging a hand down his face. “Man, you scared me.”

Castiel tilts his head. ‘Scared you?’

“You’re _burning_ ,” Sam explains. “If you were human it probably would have killed you by now. And your...Cas, there’s this _stuff_ coming out of your eyes and your nose and your ears. It’s the same color as your eyes.”

Castiel sucks in a sharp breath, so sharp he chokes on it. His ribs feel too tight; every nerve in his body seems to pinch with despair.

“Grace,” he chokes. “It’s my Grace.”

Sam blinks. Castiel knows the moment that it sinks in, because Sam recoils like he’s been struck, his face falling into the saddest look Castiel’s seen on him so far.

“No, Cas,” he whispers. “No, no, no. Does this...I mean, is it too late now? To go get your wings?”

Castiel shakes his head. He blinks and can feel Grace sliding down his cheeks, preternaturally cool and smooth against his skin. 

‘We can still get them,’ Castiel signs. The lump in his throat is too heavy for him to speak around. ‘We just have to do it soon.’

Sam looks nearly close to tears. “Are you...I mean, I’m not sure that you should go like this, Cas.”

Castiel shakes his head. ‘Doesn’t matter. I can’t wait much longer.’

“Shit,” Sam mutters. “You...I can’t let you go like this. I could go for you. You tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

‘NO,’ Castiel signs emphatically, scowling.

“You’re gonna get hurt if I let you go while you’re sick like this. Or worse. Let me help you so that you don’t end up dead.”

Castiel glares at him. They don’t speak for a moment.

“You’re not gonna let me go for you, are you?” Sam says flatly. “If you’re worried about me stealing your wings, I would never do that. I hope you know that.”

Technically, Castiel doesn’t know that. Sam could abscond with his wings and he could lose everything. After all, Crowley had promised, had sworn to Hell below that Castiel would not get stabbed in the back, and look how that turned out.

Castiel huffs. ‘You aren’t going to let me go alone either, are you?’

“No, I’m not,” Sam says immediately. “You either take me with you or I go in your place. I either gotta watch your back or eliminate the possibility of something happening to you entirely.”

Castiel sighs. His face feels bathed in starlight because of the exodus of Grace. He breathes in, shuts his eyes, and nods tersely.

Then he tells Sam almost everything. What Crowley is. What he did. How dangerous this truly is, a mortal man and a fallen angel against an extraordinarily powerful demon. Sam listens, drinks it all in, and Castiel can almost see the resolve in him getting even stronger.

They leave for the circus the next morning.


	14. XIV.

Castiel’s fever doesn’t abate before they leave. It’s clear that this is making Sam anxious; he keeps pressing painkillers into Castiel’s hand, insisting he take them even though they will do nothing for him. 

Castiel has told Sam his plan. He had been planning it to be at night; Sam had argued that during the day may be better, because there are plenty of distractions and a better chance they won’t be noticed.

Castiel isn’t sure he agrees, but in the end, there will never be a good time to steal his wings back. They are still going to be grossly overpowered no matter what, especially now that Castiel is losing the rest of his Grace, and fast.

Fear, Castiel thinks, is a very interesting emotion. It demands to be noticed; it commands attention and action. You cannot ignore fear. He’s seen fear almost constantly throughout his millenia of existence, but he never knew it would feel so all-consuming.

Sam seems similarly apprehensive. After he parks the car, they spend a long moment staring into the bustling atmosphere of the circus grounds. 

There’s a moment when Castiel thinks maybe this is going to work. He’s shrouded in one of Sam’s Stanford hoodies, head bowed. There’s a high chance nobody will recognize him, and they’re making progress buying tickets and strolling through the circus like a pair of gaggling tourists.

They pass the booth that used to belong to Castiel. He feels an almost visceral reaction run through him, a hook of panic jerking the breath out of him and making him even dizzier than the fever has already.

Then they realize the booth isn’t empty. It still advertises a fallen angel. The sign says “Samandriel,” and Castiel feels his knees give.

Sam catches him around the waist. “Cas,” he whispers. “What’s going on?”

Castiel can’t think. He can’t breathe. He feels sick as he pulls away from Sam’s grip and stumbles toward the booth, bursting through the door and heaving breaths like a drowning man.

“Samandriel,” Castiel manages, voice strangled, stumbling over the Enochian syllables.

The figure in the cage--the same one Castiel knows far too intimately--turns, and Castiel doesn’t recognize the vessel, a young blond man, but he can see that Samandriel recognizes him.

“Castiel,” Samandriel says, voice pitched with surprise. “What are you doing here? Crowley said you were the last angel he had, if he catches you you’re dead.”

Castiel is vaguely aware of Sam standing just behind him, but he stumbles forward, falling to his knees and clutching the iron bars. He blinks Grace and tears out of his eyes.

“How did he take you?” Castiel breathes, weeping. “This wasn’t...Samandriel, how did he find you?”

“I needed a vessel,” Samandriel says. “I happened to find him here, and when I possessed him, Crowley realized I was an angel and trapped me in here.”

There’s a heavy pause. Castiel thinks he might pass out. 

“He took my wings,” Samandriel whispers. “Cleaved them from my back. I didn’t know I could feel pain like that.”

Castiel wilts completely against the bars then, sobbing in earnest. 

There’s some yelling from outside the booth, from somewhere nearby on the grounds.

“That’s Lucifer,” Samandriel says urgently. “Castiel, you’d better leave.”

Castiel can’t even _move_. But then there are approaching footsteps and Sam’s hands land on Castiel’s shoulders, gently tugging.

“Cas,” Sam says. “We gotta go. We’re gonna get caught.”

Samandriel reaches through the bars, pushing at Castiel’s knee, and between his urgent nudges and Sam’s tugging, Castiel somehow ends up on his feet.

They’ve just spun around when Lucifer’s filling the doorway of the booth, looking disdainfully at Samandriel and suspiciously at Sam and Castiel.

Sam goes tense, eyes wide, and Castiel stares at the ground. He is furious, and he’d like nothing more than to find Crowley, now, and avenge himself and Samandriel, but Lucifer’s eyes are narrowing, and there’s a thrum of danger starting to run down Castiel’s spine.

“We’re just on our way out,” Sam says, voice remarkably steady. He guides Castiel toward the door, and they’ve almost managed to pass by Lucifer when he reaches out and grabs Castiel’s upper arm, stopping them.

Castiel doesn’t look up, carefully keeping his gaze glued to the ground. He can feel Lucifer’s eyes on him though, their slow, discomforting crawl down his body.

“Looks like you should be taking him home rather than dragging him around a circus,” Lucifer says to Sam, voice sickening with feigned concern. “We’d hate for something bad to happen.”

Castiel swallows. Sam’s hands are shaking where they’re gripping Castiel’s waist. Lucifer’s voice feigns camaraderie and friendliness, but there is an undeniable threat in those words, and Castiel can barely muster the strength to stand. They can’t give up, they shouldn’t give up, but they have to.

“Of course,” Sam says, and Castiel can envision the forced smile on his face. “I’ve got him. If you just let us by, we’ll be on our way home.”

Lucifer examines them for another moment, and Castiel wonders if Sam’s heart is pounding just as hard as his own. Then Lucifer sighs, lets go of Castiel’s arm, and lets them by. His eyes are a cold, searing pressure on Castiel’s back.

Sam practically carries Castiel out of the booth. He manages to make it look like Castiel is simply leaning against him, like they are but a pair of cuddly lovers, but in truth Castiel can barely walk, can barely see. It is only Sam’s arms around him and Sam’s voice, low and murmuring, that keeps Castiel going at all.

Sam gets Castiel into the car. He jogs around to the driver’s side and peels off, driving far too fast for several minutes before he pulls onto the shoulder of the road and unbuckles his seatbelt.

“Cas,” he says gently. “Castiel, look at me.”

Castiel is curled on the passenger seat, knees to his chest, face buried in his hands. He’s shaking, scared, falling to pieces.

But he looks at Sam anyway.

“We need to go back,” Castiel whispers.

Sam shakes his head. One hand rests gently on Castiel’s shoulder. “It was all going to go wrong,” he says quietly. “We need a better plan before we go back. We...Lucifer...Cas, that was not going to be a fair fight. We lost the upper hand.”

“Crowley took another angel.” Castiel stares at the dashboard, at the not-so-clean windshield of Sam’s car. “I didn’t...I would not have let you free me if I had known that was going to happen.”

“No, Cas.” Sam bends, angling to try to make eye contact with him. “You aren’t at fault. If anyone is to blame other than the ringleader, it’s me. I broke you out. I’m the reason you were gone and the reason another angel is there now.”

The sharp spike of despair that hits Castiel in the chest is excruciating; he stares numbly at Sam for a long, long moment.

_Sam is beautiful_ , Castiel thinks. It breaks through the storm in his head like a sunbeam. Even with the concern running rampant in his face, Sam is a very handsome man. He has those indescribable eyes, and his long, shaggy hair gives his face a boyish charm. There’s an alluring curve to his jaw and a softness to his mouth. 

Castiel is, oddly, struck with the urge to kiss him. He finds himself suddenly craving the kind of intimacy that very rarely happens in Heaven. He wants Sam’s hands; wants to cradle Sam’s jaw with the tips of his fingers. 

Sam is looking back at him, mouth tugging down, brow furrowed. He still looks solemn and worried; Castiel wonders if kissing him would wipe that away.

Castiel unfolds. He drops his feet back to the floor, drops his hands from his face. He finds himself leaning toward Sam, spellbound by his kaleidoscope eyes. Everything seems to fall away; Castiel can only think of Sam.

Sam doesn’t move. Castiel leans in further, and further, his nerve endings on fire not from fever or panic but anticipation.

Sam pulls in a shaking inhale.

Castiel’s hovering in front of him; they are scant inches apart. Castiel could close the gap at any moment; could lean the rest of the way over the console and press their mouths together.

He wants to, very, very badly. But he doesn’t. Sam’s eyes are wide; they stare at each other until Sam swallows, and Castiel’s attention is caught by the bobbing of his Adam’s apple. 

Castiel almost does it then; is, in fact, moving forward just slightly to get even closer, but Sam clears his throat, and Castiel freezes.

“Uh,” Sam says quietly. “Cas...I’m sorry. I can’t. I can’t do that to Brady.”

Castiel nods, but neither of them move for a long moment, and the tense, electric atmosphere filling Sam’s car doesn’t abate.

“I can’t do that to Brady,” Sam repeats, although the conviction behind it is weak. He sucks in a sharp breath and in one smooth movement pulls away, breaking the spell.

Castiel doesn’t speak, doesn’t sign, even though his mind is overflowing with frantic apologies. He’s done something wrong; he’s done wrong by Sam, and this is unacceptable to him.

“We should go back to the apartment,” Sam says after a moment, voice remarkably steady. “You could do with another round of painkillers and some more rest. We’ll...we’ll figure out another plan before we go back to the circus.”

Castiel flinches, Samandriel’s dirty, stricken face flashing in his head. They’ll need a much more detailed plan if they’re going to be able to pull this off; and maybe if Castiel can swing it the right way, it won’t even be necessary to involve Sam.

Castiel will just get his wings back, defeat Crowley, and leave Sam to an ordinary, mortal existence with no more risk of death than any one of his neighbors.

Leave Sam. That thought almost hurts. Castiel thinks maybe this is the most fearsome part of being human, after all. Of all the shortcomings Heaven had complained of about their human charges, nobody had ever mentioned heartbreak, and how poorly designed it is. Torturous, really.

He hasn’t even left Sam yet, and Castiel already aches from it. And not kissing Sam; that aches as well, stinging in the back of his throat and burning in his ribs.

Humans are many things, and Castiel doesn’t look forward to having to be a single one of them in the interim before he gets his wings back. But he prays to any angel that is listening that he’ll never lose this budding love for Sam Winchester.

They don’t speak on their drive back to Sam and Brady’s apartment. Sam seems preoccupied, driving almost on autopilot, and Castiel is trying to juggle too many feelings. _So_ many feelings.

Despair. Grief on the behalf of Samandriel. Desperation. Anger toward Brady. Anger toward Crowley. Uncertainty. Fear. Shame. Dread.

It’s a cocktail of misery, and Castiel begins to understand how so many humans end up in so much pain. 

Perhaps the worst thing of them all is knowing that Castiel aches for Sam while Sam aches for Brady. What a stroke of ill luck.

Fitting for Castiel. 


	15. XV.

Castiel and Sam work out a new plan. They settle in the hallway outside Sam’s apartment, or on the hood of his car, or in the laundry room, and take turns scrawling notes down, strategizing, scheming. They plan as quickly as they are able, using the plan Cas has already created as a backbone.

It’s only been a few days since their first attempt. It’s only been a day or so since Castiel’s eyes stopped bleeding Grace; to hide them from Brady, he’d been wearing “sunglasses” that were too big for his face and Sam spent a lot of time keeping Brady far from Castiel. Not that Brady seemed to mind.

Castiel wants to go. Sam wants to hold off; wants to wait until Castiel is a little less ill, until they can get the upper hand a bit easier. 

There is no time for waiting. There is no time for much of anything other than hurried whispering and tiny notes in the margins, Sam’s neat English script intertwining with Castiel’s curling Enochian. 

There’s an atmosphere around them that Castiel isn’t accustomed to; a tension. Sam can’t seem to look Castiel in the eyes for very long, and he speaks very little to Castiel while Brady’s around, if he even speaks to Castiel at all.

This tension is never more clear than when they’re planning. Alone, just the two of them, Sam comes alive a bit more, less skittish and subdued.

It is this Sam that’s Castiel’s favorite, the Sam who is himself without fear. 

They’re in the laundry room. It’s late at night, so even quiet talking in the hallway is a bad idea, and the rain pounding down outside doesn’t make them eager to go to Sam’s car. The laundry room, Sam had explained, is likely to be abandoned at this time of night.

The laundry room is indeed deserted other than the two of them. A couple of machines whir and shake, Sam and Brady’s laundry tumbling through, and Sam sits on top of an empty one, legs crossed and notebook splayed on his lap.

What they know so far is this: they’ll go at night. Sam will go to scout out one half of the circus grounds, making sure they won’t immediately get caught, while Castiel scouts out the other half.

That had been a source of argument multiple times. Castiel isn’t eager to let Sam go do any piece of this alone--too risky, too dangerous, and Sam truly is just a young mortal. But Sam had argued that he had already successfully snuck into the circus to get Castiel in the first place, and they needed to use as little time as possible.

They wasted so much time arguing about this that Castiel eventually just gave in. 

Now they can finally keep planning.

“So,” Sam says, pen cap hanging out of his mouth. “We scout our halves and head back to the ferris wheel. Then we head back to Crowley’s tent, and...what? Sneak in, cause a distraction to get him to leave?”

Castiel only has a vague memory of how Crowley likes to set up his personal tent, the one around back of the red-and-white monstrosity. 

‘Sneak in,’ he signs. ‘Crowley’s tent has two rooms. As long as he isn’t aware we’ve entered the front room, we can get in and out rather easily.’

Sam nods. “What happens if he knows we’re there?”

Castiel shakes his head. ‘We don’t want to find out.’

“Okay,” Sam says slowly, chewing at the pen cap. “So we better hope this doesn’t go wrong, then.”

Ah, hope. Castiel’s only source of that now is Sam.

* * *

Sam and Brady go out on a date the next night. Brady had to practically _beg_ Sam to go, and Sam never said it, but Castiel knew Sam wanted to stay for him, for the plan, for his wings.

They leave around four pm on Friday. Castiel paces the apartment and schemes.

Sam comes home alone at one in the morning. His hair is disheveled, lip split, cheeks alcohol-rosened. 

‘Sam?’ Castiel signs. ‘Are you alright? Where’s Brady?’

Sam nearly falls over pulling off one shoe, righting himself on one of the kitchen chairs. He gives a bitter, uncharacteristic giggle and offers Castiel a loopy, insincere grin. “We broke up.”

Castiel gets off the couch. ‘What?’

Sam shrugs. “We broke up. I’m a…’m a single pringle now.”

Castiel just gapes. Sam’s slowly working out his other shoe, managing to take it off without losing his balance this time. 

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” Sam asks when he straightens up. “M’ lip? Got in a fight.”

‘Got in a fight? With who?’

Sam looks at Castiel like he’s crazy. “With Brady. Duh. Said...he said I liked you better. Said I was cheatin’.”

Castiel tilts his head. To his knowledge, there’s been no infidelity in Sam and Brady’s relationship.

Sam must catch Castiel’s confusion even through his intoxicated haze, because his face splits into more of a wry grin, eyes just a little fond. “With you, Cas. Thought I was cheatin’ on ‘im with you.”

‘But you weren’t,’ Castiel signs. ‘We are not more than friends.’ If they don’t count the almost kiss in Sam’s car.

“Yeah,” Sam slurs, then shrugs. “He wasn’t wrong, though. I do like you better than him.”

Castiel almost takes a step back. 

Sam pauses for a moment, blinking slowly, and then his face sobers. “Ah...I don’t think I was gonna tell you that.”

Castiel swallows. He doesn’t know what to make of this. He’s going to break Sam’s heart. It is inevitable. He is going to get his wings back, and he is going to return to Heaven and leave Sam behind, and Sam will have ruined his life with Brady for nothing.

“Cas,” Sam says, drawing the word out. “Cas-ti-el. I like youuuuuu.”

Castiel wants to say he likes Sam, too. But he isn’t sure if he and Sam are thinking the same way, and even if he does catch himself wanting Sam as more than a friend, he can’t give in to it. He has to go. No matter what big-hearted, handsome mortal men get in his way.

Sam comes closer. He’s standing just in front of Castiel, the closest they’ve ever been to each other, and Castiel finds himself tilting his head so he can still look Sam in the eyes.

“My pretty angel,” Sam breathes, and Castiel really has _no_ idea what to do with _any_ of this. 

‘Not an angel anymore,’ he signs, and Sam’s face falls.

“Pretty anyways,” Sam insists, voice slightly petulant, and then his hands are cupping Castiel’s face and he’s leaning their foreheads together.

Castiel is frozen, tense. He understands that this constitutes a display of romantic affection. He also understands that humans tend to do things they shouldn’t while under the influence of alcohol; he’s learned as much from Gabriel’s many anecdotes.

Sam leans a little closer. Their noses are brushing, now, and Sam’s breath--warm and smelling of liquor--ghosts over Castiel’s face.

“I like you,” Sam repeats, and then he leans in close enough that their mouths are nearly touching.

Sam’s going to kiss him. Castiel has never been kissed. He feels plunged completely out of his element, eyes wide as he stares at Sam with an expression that probably comes across as horrified.

Sam blinks, slowly, and then meets Castiel’s eyes, thumbs warm on Castiel’s jaw and warm breath tickling his lips.

Castiel prepares himself for Sam to lean in the rest of the way, but Sam blinks again, his eyes blow wide, and he pulls away from Castiel as if he’s sustained a quite painful burn.

“Cas,” he says, voice low and driven to sound much more sober by mortification. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

Castiel’s hands are shaking. ‘It’s okay.’

Sam shakes his head frantically. “No, no it isn’t. I’m sorry. I shouldn’ have done that. That wasn’t fair to you.”

Castiel shakes his head. He’s caught off guard, but he isn’t upset. ‘It’s really alright.’

“It isn’t,” Sam repeats. “I just...I gave you no say in that. I shoulda at least asked you.”

Castiel takes Sam’s hands, pulling them away from where Sam’s pulling at his hair. He waits until Sam looks him in the eyes.

“Sam,” he says, and _god_ , his voice is so _weak_. “It’s alright.”

Sam nods. “Alright. Okay. Good. But I’m gonna...I’m gonna go shower now. ‘M gonna leave you alone.”

Castiel wants to protest, but Sam’s already staggering down the hallway and slamming the bathroom door behind him before he can. 

* * *

They don’t talk about the almost-kiss. Castiel sees no point in bringing it up when he truthfully wasn’t bothered by it, and Sam seems embarrassed, avoiding the topic of Friday night and Brady at all costs, though he does mention that he’s asked Brady to move out.

Brady comes by on Sunday, bringing a small brunette woman Sam calls ‘Ruby’ with him to help pack up his stuff.

Brady’s gone from Castiel’s time with Sam almost as quickly as he’d appeared.

And just as quickly, their plan is finished. 

Castiel is going to have his wings back. He cannot lose.


	16. XVI.

Of all the places for a high demon of Hell to choose as a workplace on Earth, a circus seems like it would be at the bottom of the list.

Especially for a pompous, cunning demon like Crowley. Castiel had expected to hear about one of the more lucrative human occupations; the ones even the angels know. The lawyers and the doctors and the bankers and the politicians.

Crowley is a ringleader. And Castiel immediately dislikes the circus; the noise, the bustle, the clutter. An unwelcome, unpleasant juxtaposition to being in Heaven.

But business is business; Castiel is not here to enjoy himself. He’s here to secure a way into Purgatory, on the request of Michael and Raphael, and not much else.

Crowley seems very much like he’s here to enjoy himself. Everything seems to amuse him; he has seemingly no care in the world as to how they’ll get their work done.

Castiel’s time with Crowley is first and foremost aggravating. 

And then it’s spun on its head, and Castiel is strapped down, his wings get taken, and he begins to understand over the next two centuries how so many humans do not believe in God.

Castiel spends the drive to the circus grounds with hope unfurling in his chest.

Their plan is detailed, well thought out. They can do this. Castiel will get his wings back, get his Grace back, make sure Samandriel gets his wings and his Grace back, and this centuries-long nightmare can finally be brought to an end.

Sam is nervous. His hands have fidgeted with the steering wheel the whole drive, his free leg bouncing. His jaw is moving as if he’s grinding his teeth, and at every stop sign or red light, one hand reaches back to mess with the hair at the nape of his neck.

Castiel is, of course, nervous as well. But the apprehension is outweighed by the growing, blinding light at the end of the tunnel.

When Sam parks his car, a quarter-mile back from the circus, he takes a deep breath and turns to Castiel. 

“Ready?”

Castiel just nods.

And off they go.

It’s around midnight. The circus is dark and silent, but the hulking buildings and the knowledge of what waits inside for them make it feel foreboding.

Against the street, stretching out from the ticket booth, there’s a fence. Most of it is wooden, thick rough boards thrown together in the cheapest way possible, but around where they’re parked, it tapers into a chain-link fence.

This is to their advantage. Chain link provides footholds, handholds; it is far easier to climb than smooth wooden boards.

Sam climbs first. Castiel wonders what else Sam has broken into, because he scales the fence with practiced ease.

Of course, Sam  _ has _ broken into the circus before, but apparently he snuck through the gates instead of using the fence line.

Once Sam has dropped to the ground inside the circus grounds, Castiel starts to climb. Once upon a time, Castiel could have simply flown over this fence; now, the cold metal presses red lines into his palms and constantly makes him feel as though he is about to lose his footing.

He makes it over, though. They don’t speak, just look at each other and nod before splitting apart. Castiel heads to the right, Sam to the left. Sam will end up in closer proximity to Crowley and Lucifer; Castiel hates it, but Sam insisted that Castiel would get caught if they did it the other way around.

The circus is quiet, as it always is in the dark; it’s almost eerie. The bustle and noise and flashing lights seem to embody a certain essence of the circus itself; in the absence of them, Castiel’s hair stands up at the back of his neck.

Castiel reminds himself that silence is a good thing; they’re in trouble if there’s anything else. Nothing stirs as Castiel creeps along the fence line, and he makes it around to the gate and then to the ferris wheel without incident.

Sam is waiting for him. He looks nervous, and the moonlight makes the fear gleam even brighter in his eyes, but he is unharmed, and to Castiel that is a massive relief.

Sam jerks his head toward the main circus tent, and by extension, Crowley’s tent. ‘Ready?’ he signs.

Castiel dips his head into a nod. ‘Carefully,’ he signs, and then they go.

Sam is standing up as straight as possible. Castiel realizes abruptly that this means Sam must slouch fairly often, because he gains at least an inch this way. 

Castiel stays close by his side. One of Sam’s hands is shoved deep in his pocket; Castiel assumes it’s holding tight to the pocket knife Sam insisted on bringing. 

The tent remains dark and silent as they walk around it, the hulking canvas structure not even budging in the breeze. Castiel begins to feel dread creep into his stomach, however, when they get around the back and come face-to-face with Crowley’s tent.

The flaps are drawn back, almost as if Crowley is inviting visitors, and there’s a camping lantern on, casting a bleached LED glow over the tent and spilling out toward Castiel and Sam. Castiel glances at Sam, who stares back at him, face pale, and swallows hard.

‘What do we do?’ Sam signs, hands trembling.

Castiel doesn’t know. In an instant, the flame of hope in his chest is extinguished. They’ve gravely miscalculated. Crowley knows, somehow, that they are here. He knows and to continue would be suicide.

Sam must see his hesitation, his uncertainty. ‘We should keep going.’

Castiel shakes his head, almost violently. 

‘We’ll figure it out,’ Sam signs rapidly. ‘I’ll fight for you if I have to. But you need your wings, and we’re here.’

‘You could die,’ Castiel retorts, hands twitching. ‘I’ll go alone. I’ll do it myself from here on out.’

Now Sam vehemently shakes his head. ‘I’m not leaving. I promised you.’

‘Sam,’ Castiel signs with as much emphasis as possible. ‘Nothing is worth losing you.’

Sam puffs a quiet sigh through his nose, staring at Castiel with an unreadable expression. He doesn’t sign anything, but Castiel seems to get his message just the same; Sam is going to do this for him whether it means death or not, and that revelation makes something weep under Castiel’s ribs.

Castiel takes a deep breath. His movements are clipped and abrupt when he signs, ‘Fine. We keep going.’ 

The walk to Crowley’s tent is a cautious one; fraught with stress and nerves, Castiel can’t keep his hands steady. Sam has now taken out his pocket knife and brandishes it in front of him.

They only pause for a moment in front of the tent flaps, and then they enter.

There is no Crowley. The tent is only one room, not what Castiel remembers, and it’s immediately clear that they’re the only ones here.

There is no Crowley, but there are also no wings.

There are two large iron racks bolted to a large wooden board that’s standing at the back of the tent, on top of a table so that it’s high on the wall.

The floor has a few fallen feathers. Some of them gleam like an oil slick; black with traces of iridescent dark blue. The rest are tawny, speckled with white and dark gray, and Castiel takes a deep breath.

Sam takes a step forward. He still looks terrified, but it’s clear he’s expecting to console Castiel.

But Castiel isn’t upset. Castiel is  _ furious _ .

“We need to find him,” he says quietly, and the vitriol in his voice seems to shock Sam. “I’m going to kill him. If I have to kill him to get back what’s mine, I will.”

Sam doesn’t ask what made this switch flip in Castiel. He simply digs around the tent, looking for clues or weapons. 

He ends up coming up with a long, sleek silver blade. The hilt and the handle are rounded, made from the same silver as the blade, and Castiel’s eyes widen when he sees it.

“That’s an angel blade,” he murmurs. “That’s either mine or Samandriel’s.”

Sam flips it around in his hands, tests the weight of it, and then looks back up at Castiel. “Can it kill him?”

Castiel nods. Sam flips the blade around and offers the hilt to him, and Castiel takes it, tucking it up his sleeve.

Sam opens his mouth to say something else when a familiar melody starts to float over the grounds.

Castiel turns to look out of the tent. Just visible in the gaps of the ferris wheel is the funhouse, which is now lit up, the clown head over the door tilting back and forth, music emanating from within.

This, it appears, is a game. But Castiel is done weeping; he is here to get back what is his, come Hell or high water, and no theatrical child of Eve will stop him.


	17. XVII.

Fury burns a lot hotter, a lot brighter, than hope, and it propels Castiel across the grounds, off toward the funhouse.

Sam matches his pace, face set with determination. He grimaces at the clown head as they get closer, but doesn’t falter.

Just in front of the doors, which are yawning open with multicolored lights spilling out, they’re stopped by a figure stumbling toward them, tripping and pretty much falling into Castiel’s arms.

It’s Gabriel. His clothes are torn and bloodied, and there’s blood smeared on his face and leaking from a cut on his temple. He’s alarmingly pale and quivering, and Castiel’s heart drops when he looks down and sees the stab wound in the acrobat’s abdomen. 

“Gabriel,” he mutters, surprised. A lot of the fury in him falls away to shock and abject panic. 

Gabriel’s eyes widen at the sound of Castiel’s voice. “Cassie,” he breathes. “Don’t go in there. He’s...I don’t know what he is, Cas. Not human. He’s gonna kill you.”

Castiel swallows, but he can’t speak. He is suddenly, acutely aware of the fact that he cannot save Gabriel from the fate he is so obviously rocketing toward. 

“I’m so sorry, Gabriel,” Castiel manages, beginning to weep. “I can’t...I’ll come back to help you.”

Gabriel reaches up to grip the collar of Castiel’s shirt. “No, Cassie. Don’t go in there. It’s a trap. He’s gonna kill you. You got out, please don’t go back.”

“I have to,” Castiel says. “He has something of mine. I have to go in.”

Gabriel’s face twists in anguish. But he releases Castiel and staggers back, holding a hand to his gaping wound.

“I’ll come back to heal you,” Castiel says. “I promise.”

Gabriel nods, and even though Castiel abhors that he has to leave a human being bleeding and in pain, they enter the funhouse.

Of all the buildings Crowley could have chosen for their showdown, it’s no surprise he went with the funhouse. There is plenty of trickery in here; plenty of room for theatrics and pranks. Castiel can only assume Lucifer tipped Crowley off that they were sneaking around the circus.

Castiel and Sam draw closer together as they enter. The funhouse begins with a few dark hallways, dimly lit with only a few strips of rainbow lights in the junction between wall and floor.

Castiel can hear Sam’s breathing, and his own, both fast, slightly nervous. Castiel’s heart is rabbiting around in his ribcage, and he slides the angel blade out of his sleeve, holding it at the ready.

Nothing stirs in those first hallways, but when they enter the room of mirrors, Castiel knows they’re in trouble.

He can see himself and Sam, elongated to a comical degree in the mirror in front of them, but in one of the mirrors next to them, he can see a man’s silhouette. It doesn’t seem to be Crowley; even in the dark, it’s clear there’s no ostentatious ringmaster’s coat. Azazel, maybe, or Alastair.

“So you did come back,” the silhouette says, slipping from one mirror to another, and Castiel and Sam turn, backs touching, to follow his movement. This floor makes footsteps almost silent; the mirrors reflect off of each other, and Castiel finds that he has no idea where this person even is.

That voice, however. He knows _who_ it is.

“Lucifer,” Castiel says lowly. “I’m only here for Crowley. Don’t make me hurt you as well.”

Lucifer chuckles. It’s a noise full of danger and derision, and Sam goes tense against Castiel’s back. “You don’t really think I’m going to just let you by, do you?”

He prowls into the next mirror, and when he blinks, his eyes seem to gleam red in the glass even as his face contorts into something narrowed and twisted. “You and Crowley aren’t the only things here that have a stake in humanity, you know.”

“What are you?” Castiel asks. “You aren’t a demon, or an angel. I would have sensed you years ago if you were.”

“Does it matter?” Lucifer retorts. “And demons can be made, you know. Angel feathers seem to come in handy for that.”

Lucifer crosses to the next mirror, Castiel and Sam spinning with him, and grins. The mirror stretches it too wide, but the preternatural sharpness of his teeth is all his own.

“I’m not letting you get to your wings, Castiel.” Lucifer cocks his head. “You or the pretty boy.”

“Don’t touch him,” Castiel growls.

Lucifer studies them, his eyes roving far too heavily over Sam. “Don’t tempt me.”

“You come near Sam Winchester, and I’ll kill you,” Castiel spits. He means it as a warning, but Lucifer seems to take it as a challenge. 

He springs forward, away from the mirrors, and dodges Castiel, whirls around to face Sam, and sneers at him.

“You _are_ a pretty one,” he says, and the rest of his words are promptly drowned out by Sam’s sucker punch. 

Castiel takes advantage of his disorientation to grab Lucifer in a chokehold, the angel blade pressed to his throat. 

“Don’t. Touch. Sam,” he repeats. 

Lucifer swallows against the blade, but then his face splits into a cold smile. “You won’t get what you want, you know,” Lucifer taunts. “He won’t let you.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. He presses the blade tighter, just enough to break the first layer of skin. “You try to stop us, and I’ll kill you.”

“That’s low of an angel,” Lucifer says, “although I guess I can’t _really_ call you an angel any more, can I?”

Disgusted, Castiel shoves Lucifer away from him and points the blade at him. “I won’t be human for much longer,” he says, aware of Sam hovering protectively at his back. “Don’t give me a reason to smite you later.”

Lucifer still seems to think something is funny here, because the maddening smirk on his face never wavers. The moment that Castiel’s guard goes down, just a little, and he starts to turn away, Lucifer pounces. He barely gets his hands on Sam’s shoulders--one hand reaching to lock around Sam’s neck, before Castiel is practically snarling, a scowl on his face to contradict Lucifer’s sneer. 

It’s been a long time since Castiel has killed. He was only on the front lines of Heaven’s war for a short time; it has been almost three centuries since the last time Castiel killed anyone, anything.

But that soldier is still in him. With no hesitation, barely a moment after Lucifer grabs Sam, Castiel is sinking the angel blade into his chest.

“I told you,” he growls, watching the dying red flicker in Lucifer’s eyes. “You try to stop us, or you come after Sam, and I’d kill you.”

Lucifer pulls in a ragged breath. There’s an eerie red glow under his skin, like embers have been buried in his veins, and in the next moment he’s slumping backward, eyes glazing over, and falls dead to the floor.

Castiel steadies Sam before Lucifer’s weight manages to pull him to the ground. Sam is staring at him, a mix of surprise and fear on his face that makes Castiel’s guts twist uncomfortably.

“Cas…” he breathes as they start toward the next room, leaving Lucifer’s body behind. If he intends to say anything else, it must die in his throat, because there’s nothing but his quick breathing for moments afterward.

“He was a threat,” Castiel mutters. “This is war, Sam. We couldn’t leave him behind as a threat. Even if...Even if he hadn’t attacked you, I was planning to kill him before we moved on.”

Sam’s jaw tenses. He nods, seeming to make peace with this.

They fall quiet, the angel blade dripping with Lucifer’s blood, and enter the next room.

This room contains a narrow strip of floor to walk on, and a large ball pit. Castiel watches the pit warily; Sam turns his gaze to the door next to it marked ‘employees only.’

Nothing stirs in the ball pit, but the door next to it does open, and Gadreel, the lion tamer, steps out of the shadows.

“Castiel,” he says in an even baritone. “You shouldn’t do this.”

Castiel’s really getting fed up with Crowley’s little entourage. “Gadreel,” he says flatly. “I don’t particularly care what you think I should or shouldn’t do.”

“You’re here for nothing,” Gadreel continues, stepping forward. “Crowley won’t let you get your wings.”

“Crowley doesn’t get a choice,” Castiel argues, readying the angel blade again.

Gadreel raises an eyebrow. “Crowley isn’t giving _you_ a choice. You really think you’re the first angel he ever took?”

That makes Castiel pause. He glances at Sam, who looks just as confused.

Gadreel turns. He rucks up his shirt to show his shoulderblades, and the two very distinct scars there make Castiel’s heart drop.

“I escaped Heaven’s jail only to end up in Crowley’s,” Gadreel says. “I struck a deal with him thinking I could con him into giving me my wings back. All that led to was him burning them in front of me. He’s kept me here ever since.”

Something occurs to Castiel then. “Crowley said he was tipped off by another angel that he should strike a deal with Heaven. That was you, wasn’t it?”

Gadreel nods slowly, and Castiel’s hands start to tremble in fury.

“I was the angel that worked with him,” he snaps. “I was the angel that deal ruined. You are the reason I am stuck here.”

Gadreel’s eyes widen, and he takes a step back. “Castiel…”

Castiel steps forward, his grip tightening around the angel blade. “I have suffered here for _centuries_. I have been unable to help humankind as I was brought into being to do. I have had my identity _ripped away from me_. And it is all because of _you_. Because instead of even attempting to warn Heaven, you _sold us out_.”

Gadreel looks properly chastened. “I’m not here for a fight. But you aren’t going to get what you want from this. None of us have.”

“Then I will be the first,” Castiel snaps. “And I will cut down every being in my way to do so, if I must. And make no mistake, Gadreel. That includes you if it must.”

“I can’t let you pass,” Gadreel says. “I am under orders, Castiel. You will not be getting your wings.”

Castiel adjusts his grip on the angel blade. He and Gadreel size each other up for a moment, and then Castiel strikes, catching Gadreel’s jaw with a left hook and readying the angel blade with his right. Gadreel presses him back, shoving Castiel up against the wall and pinning him. Castiel struggles, trying to get free, but Gadreel smashes his head against Castiel’s face, making his nose burst bloody and managing to disorient him.

Sam tries to interfere, but Gadreel kicks his feet out from under him, sending him sprawling.

Castiel tries to lift the angel blade, but then Gadreel presses tighter against him and locks a hand around Castiel’s throat.

Castiel chokes. Dimly, through the haze in his vision, he can see Sam stand, gripping his pocket knife with blanched knuckles, and in the next moment Gadreel cries out and crumples, his legs buckling.

Castiel sputters, gasping in ragged inhales now that the pressure on his throat is gone. Gadreel is on the floor, clutching at the backs of his knees. His hands are slick with blood. 

“You let Cas and I through,” Sam snaps, “or I kill you right here and right now.”

Gadreel scowls. He struggles to get up, but his knees aren’t bending for him, and he falls back to the floor with a groan. 

Sam glances at Cas. Uncertainty swims in his eyes.

Cas shakes his head. “Gadreel isn’t a threat anymore,” he says, and turns away. Let the traitor of a former angel rot on the funhouse floor.

Seething, Castiel simply stalks into the next room of the funhouse, Sam following behind. 

“Cas,” Sam whispers. “Are you sure about this?”

Castiel wheels on him, gaping. “You can back out now if you wish. I cannot.”

Sam holds up his hands. “That’s not what I mean. I just don’t...I don’t want to see you get hurt. Or worse. And it looks like this is going to be bad. Like… _bad_. Lucifer and Gadreel-”

“I can’t give up now,” Castiel says. “I have to finish this. With or without you, no matter how badly it transpires, I must do this.”

Sam pulls in a deep breath and nods. “Alright. I’ll go with you, then.”

Castiel nods back, and they continue walking. There’s nothing big in this room; a few floor panels that move when you step on them. The room appears to be empty and stays that way, and they pass through it without being stopped.

The rest of the funhouse is seemingly empty. Castiel keeps waiting for someone else to materialize and try to stop them, but nobody does. Not Azazel or Abaddon or Alastair. Not even Metatron. 

They make it all the way to the back of the funhouse, the large room where equipment is stored, before anything else goes wrong.

There is a figure standing at the back of the room, shrouded by a long, ostentatious coat, and Castiel understands immediately why Crowley picked this room.

There are boxes and shelves and rafters; plenty of room for dirty tricks.

One of those tricks is immediately apparent; Castiel and Sam step into the room, and a lit match drops from the rafters. It hits the floor and a line of fire begins to race around the perimeter of the room; Crowley has trapped them in holy fire.

“Crowley,” Castiel calls. “I’m done with the games. I’ve come for my wings.”

“Ah,” Crowley responds, and his voice sounds grating, metal against metal. In the dim room, the red glow under his skin looks eerie. “I see someone got their balls back.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “I mean it, Crowley. Give me what I came for. I will cut you down to get what I want.”

Crowley hums, stalking forward a few steps. “Bold words coming from the caged angel. I had you for what, a hundred years? Two hundred? Far longer than any of your buddies have lasted.”

Castiel is aware of Sam hovering at his side, close enough that their arms are brushing. He looks unsure and maybe a little afraid, and Castiel can’t find this surprising. Crowley would be intimidating as a human; as a powerful demon capable of trapping angels, he’s absolutely fearsome.

Castiel is done being afraid. He will make Crowley see the error of his ways, and he will leave here a full angel, and nothing will stop him. He leaves Sam behind, stalking toward Crowley.

“Do I look like I’m in a cage?” Castiel snaps. 

“You’re easy enough to put into one,” Crowley drawls, passively watching Castiel approach. His eyes turn to Sam. “And who’s your boyfriend here? Here to save the day for you?”

“Cas can save his own day,” Sam offers, and even if he is afraid, his voice is steady, strong. 

Crowley’s face splits into a slow sneer. “Oh, he speaks. You both do, actually. Haven’t recalled you saying a word since I locked you up, Cas,” he says. “Wings no longer got your tongue?”

Castiel glares and brandishes his angel blade. He’s almost to Crowley. “I don’t care for your theatrics, Crowley. I’ve had enough. Where are my wings?”

“Why darling,” Crowley purrs. “I need you to try a bit harder than that.” 

Crowley’s human visage seems to drain away more and more with every step that Castiel takes, until he no longer looks like a human at all. Audible even from halfway across the room, Sam makes a shocked noise, and Castiel can’t blame him.

Crowley’s true form breeds fear. His skin bubbles and almost seems to melt off of him, glowing red and orange like lava. His face, no longer coated in human skin, seems to be nothing more than a burnt-looking skull with beady black eyes, two horns protruding wickedly from his forehead and curling into the air. 

It’s then that Castiel really has to commend Sam on his bravery. He had already known that Sam had to be brave to even agree to this, but to stand your ground when faced with one of Hell’s most powerful demons with barely a gasp? Sam Winchester would have made a very honorable angel. He is, after all, already quite a heroic human.

Just a few steps before Castiel reaches Crowley, there’s a cacophony of rattling metal overhead, and two figures drop from the catwalk, landing behind Castiel.

“Alastair, Azazel,” Castiel sighs, adjusting his grip on his blade. He barely turns to look over his shoulder; Crowley is a much bigger threat than either of these two.

Alastair sneers at him, eyes flickering black, too many rows of sharp teeth in his mouth, and skin just a little scaly. As Castiel has always suspected, then, Alastair is a demon, although he’s run of the mill. Nowhere near as powerful as Crowley. 

“Castiel,” Azazel returns, eyes flickering yellow. “The freed bird.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. He has tired of all the back and forth. He isn’t here for small talk.

He takes a deep breath, feigning resignation, and spins as if to attack Alastair and Azazel. At the moment that he can hear Crowley laughing behind him, his guard down, Castiel changes directions, spinning back around and going for Crowley instead.

Almost before anyone can react, Castiel has Crowley in a chokehold, the angel blade’s tip pressed to his throat. 

“Crowley,” Castiel snarls. “I will not ask again. _Where are my wings_?”

Crowley laughs, and Castiel grimaces at the sound of it. Crowley’s ringmaster’s coat is smoldering, starting to burn from the contact with his boiling skin. “Cassie, darling,” he drawls. “You aren’t getting your wings.”

Castiel’s skin is starting to burn where it’s pressed into contact with Crowley, and it’s a searing hot pain that pairs well with the boiling fury rising in Castiel’s veins. 

Azazel and Alastair are circling them. They’re clearly trying to find the best vantage point to get to Castiel without getting Crowley killed, but Castiel doesn’t care.

Sam’s creeping around the perimeter of the room. He meets Castiel’s eyes, and then seems to catch sight of something next to Crowley and heads straight for it.

“That’s no good,” Crowley says, voice strained as Castiel presses the angel blade in tighter. “Your boy toy is stealing the show from me. Boys?”

Alastair and Azazel turn in sync to scowl at Sam. Sam’s hand is resting on a pulley on the wall, his eyes directed up toward the ceiling. 

“If you go near him,” Castiel warns, “I will kill Crowley, and then I will kill both of you. Just give me my wings.”

Both demons pause. But Crowley takes advantage of the fact that Castiel is distracted and rears back, headbutting Castiel in the nose and managing to jab an elbow into Castiel’s sternum.

If Castiel were an angel, it would have no effect on him. But he’s human now, and Crowley is supernaturally strong, so it shakes Castiel’s grip loose and sends him reeling backward.

“Boy,” Crowley barks, already stalking toward Sam. Alastair and Azazel rush ahead of him.

Sam isn’t messing around. He yanks at the pulley, and something begins to descend from the rafters. It’s a hook, a pair of hooks, actually, and on each is a pair of angel wings, chained to the metal. 

Castiel can already feel his wings singing to him, Grace calling to him, wanting to edge itself back into his veins, his being. Castiel’s wings are connected to him--they are an integral piece of an angel’s being, and even with no more Grace in his veins, they recognize him, ache for him, and so they start to move, fluttering against the chains holding them in place.

Sam’s bolting down the side of the room toward the service ladder that leads up to the rafters, onto a rickety catwalk that spreads through the whole funhouse. 

Castiel realizes two things then: one, Azazel and Alastair probably tracked Castiel and Sam through the funhouse using the catwalk. And two, Sam’s eyes are set on the pairs of wings, both twitching madly to be returned to their angels.

Castiel rushes for Crowley, tackling him to the ground. He’s vaguely curious about how much Samandriel’s wings are moving when Samandriel isn’t in the vicinity, but then Crowley flips them over and presses his burning palm to Castiel’s cheek. 

Castiel can hear Sam scaling the service ladder and running down the catwalk. As Castiel and Crowley wrestle, Azazel and Alastair are rushing for the ladder as well.

Then there’s shouting and a rush of noise from the hallways of the funhouse, and two more figures come barreling into the room.

One of them is Gabriel, who looks pale and shocky, but is definitely still alive. Castiel can’t fathom _how_ he’s still alive until he spots Samandriel, and realizes that the younger angel, still in the process of falling, would have some Grace he could use to heal Gabriel at least some of the way.

Sam yells. Crowley’s laughing. Castiel’s wings are singing to him so loud he can barely stand it.

Gabriel shouts. He and Samandriel both beeline for Azazel and Alastair, keeping them from going up the ladder after Sam.

Castiel thinks he’s gotten the upper hand on Crowley for a moment, the demon pinned and squirming underneath him, but then Alastair and Gabriel careen into them, Alastair’s hip checking Castiel’s shoulder and knocking him off balance enough to let Crowley flip them around.

Crowley is a burning, immovable weight on Castiel. Castiel snarls as Crowley manages to force the angel blade out of his hand, hovering it over Castiel’s face even as Castiel tries to push him away.

Castiel’s arm gives just as Samandriel appears, swiftly yanking the angel blade from Crowley’s hand and knocking him off of Castiel.

Crowley sneers, turning to Samandriel as Castiel pulls himself up from the ground. He’s just opened his mouth to yell when there’s the loud sound of something metal giving way, and everyone looks up.

Castiel and Samandriel’s wings are spreading, casting off the chains, rising from the hooks. Crowley’s demeanor immediately changes to something furious, shocked; he surveys Sam on the catwalk with clearly displayed distaste; the molten lava of his skin simmers and bubbles faster, harsher, with rage.

In the next moment, Castiel’s wings dive for him. On his next inhale, they swoop over his head and drop to affix to his back, immediately illuminating the entire room with ethereal blue as they flash bright before fading to more muted blues and blacks, feathers gleaming. Castiel can feel Grace flooding his veins, casting a blue glow under his skin.

There’s a golden glow next to him; Samandriel’s wings and Grace have been replaced as well, then. 

Crowley is positively seething, looking like he’s close to volcanic eruption. Actual steam is starting to rise from his molten skin, and his horns are emitting an eerie red glow.

“You,” he snarls up at Sam. “You’re dead. This wasn’t your place.”

Sam practically beams at him. “Bite me,” he says brazenly, and Crowley roars.

Sam heads for the ladder. Castiel almost wants him to stay where he is, but should one of Crowley’s lackeys come for him, and he falls, Sam will be severely injured.

As it is, Sam’s isn’t all the way down the service ladder when Azazel grabs him by the ankle and the back of his shirt and pulls, managing to knock Sam off balance. 

Castiel’s wings flare sharply, but by the time he’s moving forward, Sam’s already hitting the ground, his head smacking against the floor with a sickening crack. He lays, dazed, for a moment, coughing, but manages to roll out of the way of being tackled by Azazel.

Gabriel is managing to keep Alastair occupied, away from everyone else.

Crowley grabs Castiel by the wing. Castiel reels back, fury bubbling in him, and beats his wings, smacking Crowley in the face with them and forcing him to let go. He spins around, and Samandriel tosses him his angel blade.

Crowley tilts his head as Castiel approaches, an infuriating smile on his face that makes Castiel’s blood curdle. 

“Oh, Castiel,” Crowley says in that awful, metal-grating voice. “Together again, you and I. I recall when things were as simple as you trailing around this place, nagging me about Purgatory. You know this isn’t the end. You won’t get to keep them.”

Castiel is already at the end of his patience. He is trembling with anger, the angel blade held white-knuckled in his grip, and he can taste victory on the tip of his tongue. He wants nothing more than for Crowley to stop talking.

He says nothing as he yanks Crowley into his grip by the tattered, smoldering remains of his ostentatious coat. The angel blade stabs cleanly into Crowley’s chest and sinks deep.

Crowley blinks in surprise. He surveys Castiel with surprise, with horror, and then his eyes start to flicker, his true form fading away. He crumbles to dust, falling to become a pile of smoldering ash on the concrete.

Azazel and Alastair screech. It’s an inhuman, grating sound that makes the hair on Castiel’s neck stand up and makes the Grace in him thrum with _danger, danger_ , his wings held aloft.

Alastair bolts for Castiel, snarling. He crashes into Castiel with a sound like a thunderclap, but Castiel doesn’t go down. 

Castiel shoves Alastair back with a snarl of his own, and he’s reaching forward to smite him when his attention is caught by Sam yelping.

Sam and Azazel are still fighting. Sam is losing the fight. Azazel has him in a chokehold. Castiel barely thinks it through, still aware of Alastair behind him, before he calls for Sam.

Sam whips his head around to look at Castiel. He catches the angel blade Castiel throws his way easily and rears back with it, catching Azazel in the eye and shocking him into letting go. 

Alastair tries to wrestle Castiel to the ground. He only succeeds because he manages to pin one of Castiel’s wings.

Alastair lands a few punches to Castiel’s face, and Azazel and Sam go careening past them, Sam trying to wrestle Azazel to the floor. Azazel ends up bringing Sam down, instead, only a few feet away from where Alastair has Castiel pinned.

Sam’s panting with exertion, and the scab on his lip has been reopened, but he seems otherwise unharmed. Castiel’s stopped paying very much attention to Alastair, busy observing Sam and Azazel, but his sigh of relief at Sam being okay gets cut short. Azazel wrestles the angel blade out of Sam’s grip, rears back, and prepares to strike.

“Azazel,” Castiel snaps, fighting against Alastair’s hold. “Don’t touch him.”

Azazel glances over to Castiel. “You say that as if I’m going to listen.”

Castiel opens his mouth to say something else, but Alastair closes a hand over his mouth. Castiel bites it, still struggling to get his wing out from under Alastair.

Gabriel appears, then, knocking Alastair off of Castiel, and the lesser demon snarls. “You’ll all pay,” he threatens. “We aren’t letting you leave here alive.”

Gabriel’s panting. He lifts his fists, squaring them like he’s a boxer. “Give us your best try, hotshot.”

As they start to fight, Castiel pulls himself off of the ground.

Azazel and Sam are wrestling, the angel blade getting closer and closer to Sam’s face even as Sam struggles to hold Azazel back.

Castiel heads for Azazel. Before he gets there, however, Alastair and Gabriel careen into him, knocking him off balance and off course.

Castiel manages to catch himself, staying on his feet, but just as he spins around, Azazel manages to get the upper hand, and Sam yelps as the angel blade gouges his face. For a sickening moment, Castiel’s sure it’s in his eye, but then the blade curves down and around, parting Sam’s skin into a sea of red until it hits the edge of his jaw and Azazel pulls back. 

Castiel is there in the next moment, crashing into Azazel and tackling him off of Sam. The angel blade falls to the ground with a loud clatter. Sam pulls himself up, the left side of his face awash in blood, and seems unsure of where to go, who to help, what to do. Even wrestling with Azazel, Castiel notices how young Sam seems suddenly, thrown into this world of demons and angels and feathers and blood.

“Alastair, Azazel, enough,” Castiel snarls. “Crowley is dead. It’s over.”

Both demons snarl. Azazel starts scaling the service ladder, Samandriel flying up into the rafters to meet him on the catwalk.

They start to fight, the catwalk swinging loudly, as Alastair looks wildly between Sam, Gabriel, and Castiel.

“You know,” he starts. “What will you do with your wings back, anyway? Heaven doesn’t want you anymore.”

“And how should you know?” Castiel retorts. “You harbor no connection to Heaven outside of the angels you help kidnap, pilfer from, and exploit.”

Alastair licks his lips. There is an unhinged fury in his eyes. “Heaven doesn’t want broken angels, Castiel. No. The Empty wants those.”

Castiel falters. He recalls the hazy nightmare on Sam’s couch, Duma and Heaven swallowed by dark. Duma’s breathy, panicked, blaming words echo through his head, and dread sinks through him, anchoring in his gut, dragging away enough of the fury to allow for fear to creep in.

A smile grows on Alastair’s face. It’s an ugly, twisted smile; a caricature.

“The Empty searches for you,” Alastair says, holding his ground as Castiel approaches. “It rips through Heaven, and it will leave Heaven a barren wasteland. It will kill your brothers and sisters, and it will be because of you, down here, where it doesn’t know to look.”

“I am here because of all of you,” Castiel barks. “I would have been back in Heaven if you had not trapped me and stolen from me.”

“And now our leader is dead,” Alastair snaps. “Because of you. Consider it a fair trade.”

Alastair looks smugly toward the catwalk, and something like relief spreads over his face. Castiel reaches him again, and Alastair barely manages to punch him in the face before Castiel presses a hand to his forehead and smokes him out of his vessel, sending him straight back to Hell. The vessel drops to the ground, unconscious, but mostly unharmed.

Castiel’s turning to fly to the catwalk, planning to help Samandriel, when there’s a series of shouts, and Azazel manages to shove Samandriel off of the catwalk. He flips gracelessly over the railing, but manages to catch himself midair and hovers for a moment.

He’s already heading straight back to Azazel when Azazel overturns a bucket of something, and Castiel’s wings drop under the weight of some sort of liquid.

Dread sinks through Castiel. His wings reek of holy oil. 

“Payback, Castiel,” Azazel yells. Castiel’s wings flare in alarm, and he moves to get out from under the catwalk, but it’s too late.

There’s a hoarse, panicked shout from Sam, running footsteps on the catwalk, and more cries from Sam and Gabriel.

Castiel watches Samandriel smite Azazel, and then the younger angel lands on the floor, and his eyes go wide.

In the moment between heartbeats, Castiel wonders what has everyone so shocked. They’ve won. Every threat in their way has been taken care of; Crowley is dead. Castiel and Samandriel have their wings. Everything has gone perfectly, and Castiel is buzzing with the euphoria of it.

The next moment, Castiel’s breath catches in his throat, and he stumbles, suddenly overcome with an excruciating pain that spreads through his wings, seeming to cut through him into his veins. The angel blade drops to the ground, and Castiel gapes at Samandriel, unsettled by the gleam of firelight reflected in their eyes.

Dizzy, Castiel turns to look over his shoulder at his wings, and his knees give. He’s barely aware of the fact that he gives an anguished cry that shatters the lights, showering the room in glass.

Castiel’s wings are on fire. 

For a moment, there is nothing but complete, shocked silence, and Castiel lets his eyes close, barely aware of the tears streaming down his face.

Then there’s pounding footsteps. Someone drops to their knees in front of him, and a trembling hand presses itself to Castiel’s jaw, and Sam’s voice, hoarse and shocky and scared, says “Oh, god, Cas.”

Castiel opens his eyes.

The firelight is reflected in Sam’s eyes, too; it casts flickering shadows over his whole face.

“Cas,” Sam repeats. “Oh, god. Can you...is there a way to heal from this? Should...we’ll put the fire out.”

Castiel leans into the hand on his jaw. Sam is covered in blood, the wound on his face having streamed down his neck to stain his clothes, and he looks pale. His face is pinched in pain, and Castiel sucks in a stuttering breath when he realizes Sam is weeping.

Dimly, Castiel shakes his head. ‘It’s holy fire,’ he signs with trembling hands. ‘It’s going to kill me, Sam.’

“No.” Sam shakes his head, and Castiel gets distracted admiring how Sam’s tears shimmer orange. “No, Cas...No, we came all this way.”

Castiel’s breath gets stuck in his throat. He can feel the holy fire working its way in, burrowing through him to get at his Grace.

At least he will die with Sam Winchester in front of him.

Sam looks away from him, openly sobbing now as he looks around at Samandriel and Gabriel, the only ones left in the room. “Please,” he begs, and the raw desperation in his voice makes Castiel ache. “Please, can’t one of you do something, _please_.”

“It’s holy fire,” Samandriel’s voice intones, sounding dismayed. “To have your wings burnt on your back like that...it is a death sentence.”

Sam shudders, and his head falls forward onto Castiel’s shoulder. His weeping shakes Castiel.

“Please,” Sam begs. “Please, God, please. Cas can’t go like this, please. Gah, Castiel, you can’t go. You can’t go.”

_I’m going to_ , Castiel thinks. He can feel it. It is the end of his time.

Sam’s hand spasms on Castiel’s face. His face presses a damp patch of tears and blood onto Castiel’s shoulder. 

“There has to be something,” Sam insists. “Can’t--what if we took away your wings again? What if we put the fire out? You’ve fought too hard to die now. I won’t let you. You mean too much to me.”

There is an irony in that, Castiel supposes. To come so far, and achieve so much, only to give it all up again.

He doesn’t answer, but he can feel Sam quivering against him, and then Sam addresses Samandriel.

“Would that save him? Would cutting his wings off fix it?”

There is a beat of quiet. Samandriel is probably thinking the same as Castiel; what a wretched turn of events, to just barely touch freedom after so long only to have to die with it or give it up all over again.

“It would keep him alive,” Samandriel finally answers, hushed.

Castiel shudders more with anguish this time than agony, and Sam pulls away from him so he can look Castiel in the eyes.

Sam looks so unsure; so _young_. He is twenty-two years old and having the livelihood of an angel thrust upon his shoulders.

“I won’t do it if you don’t want me to,” Sam promises, his voice steady even though Castiel can tell even saying it hurts him. “I would never do that to you. I-I want to save you, but if you don’t...if you don’t want it, that’s okay.”

Castiel is the one to fall forward this time, his face pressing into Sam’s shaking shoulder, hands gripping the edges of Sam’s jacket.

He pulls in a breath, shuddering with pain and aware that the clock is running out, and he makes peace with himself. He makes peace with never going back to Heaven. He makes peace with no more wings and ugly scars. He makes peace with not being able to help people the same ever again.

He makes peace with hikes up a fall mountain, and being shrouded in Sam’s sweatshirts, and dinners crammed onto a tiny kitchen table. 

“Do it,” he breathes. “Cut off my wings, Sam.”

Sam makes both of them shake with a particularly strong sob. Castiel feels him nod, and shifts with him when Sam reaches for the discarded angel blade.

Sam moves to stand up, and Castiel forces himself to pull away.

Sam looks like he is in agony. His face is contorted with pain and his throat works as he sobs, and his eyes have gone dark with despair. He looks simultaneously far too young, and years beyond his age. 

Sam pulls in a shuddering breath, appearing to attempt to gather himself. He moves to stand next to Castiel, and his hands shake as he lifts the angel blade.

Castiel nods to him, and then he bows his head and closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to watch Sam do this.

He can hear him, though. He can hear Sam’s ragged breathing, and the way that there seems to be no other sound in the room; Gabriel and Samandriel are spellbound, perhaps, by the boy about to cut an angel down and simultaneously save his life.

Sam doesn’t draw it out. Before Castiel even really expects it, a new spike of agony shoots through him, bolts of pain spreading from the bases of his wings. With the damage from the fire, they can’t flare; they barely twitch.

Sam finishes the stroke, and Castiel’s wings are cleaved from his back for the second time in his existence. They fall to the ground behind him, twitching as if they’d like to affix themselves right back to Castiel.

Castiel can hear them singing to him, still. It is weak, garbled; with his wings, he can feel the Grace in him fading, quickly, still burning with the flames.

Sam drops to his knees, staring at the wings and Castiel’s bleeding back in horror, and vomits.

Castiel looks away from him, lifting his head with some difficulty to look at Samandriel and Gabriel.

Samandriel looks pained; his face is creased with sorrow. Gabriel is weeping, one hand over his mouth.

And that’s the bitter end of it. Just Castiel, struggling to his feet and shuddering through the pain of Grace burning up inside of him, and Sam, still sobbing, blood still streaming down his face, an arm around Castiel to support him. Gabriel, hand held to the wound in his stomach, and Samandriel, with his wings drooping in despair.

There is a long moment of near silence. Castiel looks to Samandriel with an unspoken plea.

“I will check Heaven,” Samandriel promises, hearing Castiel’s prayer. “I’ll make sure Alastair was wrong and the Empty isn’t there.”

Castiel nods his thanks. He can’t quite manage saying it out loud, but he knows Samandriel will understand.

“I don’t have full capabilities of my Grace as of yet,” Samandriel says next. “I...I’m afraid I don’t know if I can heal all of you.”

“Heal him,” Sam says, and gestures to Gabriel. “I think Cas and I will be okay. He got the worst of it.”

Gabriel looks surprised. “No,” he says, trying to brush it off, even though he looks pale and wan, and is starting to sway. There is still a wet patch of blood on his shirt, and the hand he has pressed to his wound isn’t encouraging. “I’ll be fine. You can heal them.”

Samandriel looks between the three of them again. He makes the decision himself, it seems, and approaches Gabriel.

While Samandriel heals, Sam shifts, looking to Castiel. 

Neither of them say anything for a moment, but Sam nods to him, and Castiel nods back.

Somehow, it is enough, for the moment. 

Castiel nods to Samandriel, and the other angel nods back, still standing with Gabriel.

Sam sighs, looking between the pile of Crowley’s ashes and Castiel. He still doesn’t say anything, but he tilts his head toward the door and quirks an eyebrow, his hands only shaking a little as he signs, ‘Want to get out of here?’

Castiel does. But first he pulls away from Sam’s arm and goes to Gabriel.

Gabriel offers him a crooked grin. “Hey, Cassie.”

Castiel swallows. “Gabriel.”

They pause, for a moment, and then Gabriel tugs him forward, hugging Castiel tightly.

Castiel returns the embrace, sending a prayer of thanks to Samandriel for healing Gabriel. 

“Thank you,” Castiel says quietly. His throat gets too sore to say the rest of what he plans to, but Gabriel seems to get what he means, anyway.

“I couldn’t break you out like the sasquatch over there,” Gabriel says, in a voice Castiel has never heard before; earnest, open, with no hint of bravado. “But I wasn’t going to let you suffer in that cage alone all the time. You’re...God, Cassie, you’re welcome.”

Castiel squeezes him just a little tighter. “You get out, too,” he manages. “Now that Crowley’s gone. Leave the circus.”

Gabriel nods against his shoulder, then pulls back. A slightly wry grin appears on his face, although it doesn’t match the unguarded sense of peace and relief in his eyes. 

“I’ll do my best,” he promises. “See if I can find another job for a little old acrobat like me.”

Castiel nods, and glances to Sam, who’s leaned against the wall, eyes shut. He’d look more nonchalant if his face wasn’t pinched in pain.

“Oh, go on,” Gabriel says, rightfully guessing the path of Castiel’s thoughts. “Get him out of here. Just don’t forget about all your old circus pals, alright? Find a way to keep in touch.”

Castiel takes Gabriel’s hand and squeezes in promise. “Thank you,” he says again, and then turns.

It feels bittersweet to leave Gabriel and Samandriel behind. With the danger gone, or promised to be taken care of, the circus is nothing but a ground of memories. The majority are memories Castiel will spend his lifetime wishing to forget, he knows. 

But some of them are Gabriel, trying so hard to make Castiel feel like an ordinary man, or Rowena endlessly gifting him cures, or Meg acting like there were no bars between them, or Pamela, placing her trust in him as the angel he still somewhat was.

More than anything, though, Castiel is grateful that Sam is at his side, one arm slung over Castiel’s shoulders and his other hand pressed to his head. 

They’re out in the grounds, about to turn their backs to the gates and head back to Sam’s car, when there’s a yell.

They both jump. Sam relaxes quicker than Castiel does, and a tired smile lights up his mangled face as they turn to face the gates.

In the haze of the watery moonlight, just before dawn breaks, Castiel can’t make out more than another man, standing in front of a large, sleek black car.

“Sammy,” the man calls again. “That’s you, right?”

Castiel turns to regard Sam. He looks exhausted, and in pain, but the smile on his face has gotten big enough to show his teeth.

“Dean,” he calls, and Castiel whips his head back.

The man--Dean--is rushing toward them. He barely spares a glance for Castiel before he reaches them, and his hands are immediately on Sam, tilting his head around to look at his wound and tsking like a worried mother.

Sam bats his hands away. “Dude--Dean, stop, I’m fine.”

Dean shoots him a look. Castiel feels a little like an intruder, despite the fact that Sam’s arm is still around his shoulders and their sides are pressing together.

“That much blood doesn’t look _fine_ to me, Sam,” Dean says shortly. “Your breathing looks weird. And you’re really reminding me of that time you got a concussion playing soccer in what, tenth grade?”

“I’m fine,” Sam mutters, clearly embarrassed now. “I was already planning to drive us to the hospital anyway.”

“Well, good,” Dean mutters, and then blows out a big breath and turns to look Castiel in the eyes. “I’m assuming you’re the boyfriend Sam won’t admit he has.”

Sam chokes on his breath. Castiel tilts his head, narrowing his eyes at Dean. “I’m not Brady,” he clarifies. “And Sam and Brady have broken apart.”

“Oh, have they,” Dean says, grinning as if he knows something Sam doesn’t and lifting an eyebrow.

Sam huffs, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Yeah, whatever, Brady and I broke up. And yes, Dean, this is Castiel. Now can we go?”

Dean chuckles, shaking his head fondly, and then ducks under Sam’s other arm. It elicits an even more annoyed expression from him.

“I’m not _that_ hurt,” Sam complains. “I don’t need _both_ of you hanging onto me.”

“Yeah, yeah, Samantha,” Dean says, his tone teasing. “Save it for the hospital bed.”


	18. XVIII.

Hospitals, Castiel decides, are really quite weird. It’s much harder to judge the passing of time in a hospital. At least in the circus or in Sam’s apartment, Castiel could see the sky and figure out what time it was. There were strict routines that revealed what time of day it was; the unlocking or locking of Castiel’s booth, or Sam making breakfast in his pajamas, or Sam making dinner in his school clothes. The shower going on always meant it was nighttime. If the TV was on, it was at the very least the afternoon. If the apartment smelled like coffee, it was the morning.

In the hospital, there are thick curtains over the windows, and no seeming rhyme or reason to how the days pass. Castiel can only judge it by the content of the meals that nurses wheel in, and by the appearance of Dean, like clockwork. The older Winchester sibling seems to split his time between Sam and Castiel, considering they’re in separate rooms.

Castiel still doesn’t quite understand why they’re both being kept here. The nurses explain why he’s here, and Dean explains why Sam is here, but it feels mortal and stupid.

Castiel is here because of the wounds on his back from his wings. The doctors tell him they’re worried about the quality of them; they’re concerned that it seems they’ve been open sores for so long. And because Castiel still has a fever from the loss of his Grace, their worry is heightened. There’s lots of talk of infection.

Castiel is more annoyed by this than anything. Dean laughs when he hears Castiel’s little diatribe against being in the hospital. He reaches over and ruffles Castiel’s hair, still chuckling a little, and says, “Glad I’m not the one living with you when you get this grumpy from sleep deprivation.”

Castiel doesn’t think it’s funny, which only serves to amuse Dean even more.

Sam is here, Dean explains, because he has a concussion and a couple of broken ribs, and the nurses are trying to make sure the gash on his face will heal okay.

From what Dean says, Sam is no more pleased to be here than Castiel. They both, apparently, take up most of Dean’s visits complaining to him.

More than anything, Castiel misses Sam. It’s only been a handful of days, not even a week, but Castiel misses him. He’s gotten so used to Sam’s easygoing, often quiet presence. He’s gotten used to the way Sam manages to make himself seem far more approachable and far smaller than the six-foot-four man that he is. 

He’s gotten used to admiring Sam, in all honesty, and he’s gotten used to their conversations about nothing or everything. He would almost rather see Sam with Brady again if it means he gets to see him.

When he laments about this, Dean finds it hilarious. Castiel makes him promise not to tell Sam once he realizes this is one of those human things that he should be embarrassed about admitting. 

“Man,” Dean says. “You got it bad.”

“Got what?” Castiel asks suspiciously. He’s only known Dean for this handful of days, but he’s already aware of Dean’s penchant for jokes. He would probably get along with Gabriel quite well.

“Ah, nothing,” Dean says, waving it away. He still looks too amused for Castiel’s good, however. “Just a figure of speech. You’ll figure it out yourself, hopefully.”

Castiel just frowns. He doesn’t understand, but Dean is saying his goodbye so that he can head back to Sam’s room.

Castiel spends most of the afternoon either attempting to catch up on sleep or ruminating on Dean’s words. He doesn’t come to any kind of useful conclusion.

* * *

Dean wakes Castiel up the next morning, inadvertently. It is, after all, around eleven in the morning. Castiel has no doubt that Dean went to Sam’s room first, as soon as visiting hours started, and spent a few hours with his brother before coming to Castiel.

“Good news, Cas,” Dean says while Castiel rubs sleep out of his eyes and frowns at his sleep-numbed wrist. “You get to go home today.”

That wakes Castiel up quick. He gapes at Dean. “What?”

Dean smiles at him. Seems both Winchester boys have good smiles in their genes, although Castiel absolutely prefers Sam’s. 

“Ah, I beat the nurse to the punch. Well, you and Sam finally get to go sleep in your own bed. I’m taking your asses home today.”

“I don’t have a bed,” Castiel counters. “I sleep on the couch.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Alright, well, anyway. You just gotta sign the paperwork your nurse is gonna bring in, and then we go get Sam and we’re outta here.”

It feels simultaneously like forever and no time at all before Castiel’s dressed, in more of Sam’s clothes (and he supposes he’ll have to go get his own, now), the paperwork is signed, and they’re walking down the hall to Sam’s room.

Castiel isn’t sure what reaction to expect from Sam. A part of him is, admittedly, very nervous that Sam is upset with him; that in the time away from each other, Sam has rightfully found fault with Castiel.

He can feel Dean’s eyes on him as they approach Sam’s door. Castiel expects Dean to enter first, but the older Winchester gestures for Castiel to step in before him.

As soon as he enters, any apprehension fades out of him. Sam’s face lights up in a beaming smile as soon as he sees Castiel, his eyes bright.

His hair is a little messy, sticking up and flattened down in odd places. His hospital gown is unflattering on him, baggy and a weird pale orange color. 

And the wound on his face...It’s covered in small bandages (butterfly bandages, Castiel thinks he’s heard Dean say), and the skin immediately surrounding it is just a touch pink as it heals. It’s a clean line; curving out from just below the inside corner of his left eye, against his nose, over his cheek, and down to the corner of his jaw below his left ear. It’s jarring, just a bit, to be reminded of the fact that Sam will carry the night at the circus with him for the rest of his life, not only in memory but in scars as well. 

It is, however, refreshing to see Sam cleaned of blood, not to see pain lines etched into his features. 

Sam is beautiful. He’s all Castiel focuses on as he enters the room, and Sam doesn’t even seem to notice that Dean comes in behind him.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam says, still beaming. “Long time, no see.”

Sam’s smile is infectious. Castiel finds himself reflecting his own beaming grin back, nodding. “Sam.” He pauses. “I missed you.”

The smile on Sam’s face fades into something a little softer. He dips his head toward the chair next to his bed, and Castiel obliges him, walking over and taking a seat.

From just inside the doorway, Dean clears his throat. “Sammy, I’m gonna go grab your bag. Think I left it in Baby.”

Sam nods without breaking eye contact with Castiel, and Dean’s footsteps fade out of the room and down the hallway.

“Hey,” Sam says again, in a lower tone. After a beat he reaches over and tentatively takes Castiel’s hand.

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel answers, matching Sam’s tone. He glances down at Sam’s hand, then interlaces their fingers and squeezes, as he’s seen couples do at the circus.

Sam looks fondly down at their hands, and then back up at Castiel. “How are you?”

“Ready to leave,” Castiel answers immediately, and Sam laughs. “How are you?”

“Ready to leave,” Sam parrots, grinning crookedly.

They shake their heads at each other, full of fond eyes and happy smiles.

There’s a beat of quiet. Sam’s thumb is gently running back and forth over Castiel’s knuckles, and Castiel can see Sam’s eyes sweeping over him.

An odd feeling wells up in Castiel’s chest. He’s reminded of the tension he’d felt that time in Sam’s car, leaning across the console and hovering in front of him, or the tension when Sam came home drunk. This doesn’t feel the same, not as frenzied or urgent; but it’s a burning urge just the same.

When Sam meets his eyes again, he leans toward him and lifts his free hand to cup Castiel’s jaw, and Castiel’s heart begins to quicken. Neither of them move or speak for a moment.

Castiel is the one to break the spell, leaning into Sam’s palm. “Can I kiss you?”

Sam’s face lights up all over again. “Yes,” he breathes, leaning even further toward Castiel.

Castiel takes a deep breath, closes the gap between them, and shuts his eyes just as their lips touch.

Sam’s mouth is soft. He tastes like toothpaste, or peppermint, and his head tilts to the side a little.

The kiss is slow; sweet. It feels nothing and everything like Castiel would have expected it to. It’s wetter than he’d thought it would be, and Sam clearly knows more about how to move his mouth the right way, but it also feels like coming home. It makes warmth bloom in his chest, the same warmth he’s maybe always felt when he looks at Sam or hears his voice, but amplified.

Sam’s the one to pull back, parting their mouths to take a breath. He leans their foreheads together, his unruly hair tickling Castiel’s skin, and smiles.

“Was that your first kiss?”

“Yes,” Castiel murmurs. He gets why humans put themselves through so much heartbreak if this is the feeling they’re chasing.

Sam hums. “Did you like it?”

“I liked it very much,” Castiel answers, and Sam shifts a little.

“Want to do it again?”

Castiel nods, and Sam moves the hand on his jaw to thread his fingers through the hair at the nape of Castiel’s neck instead. He guides their mouths back together, and Castiel decides that he is already addicted to kissing Sam Winchester.

This second kiss is much the same as the first, slow and sweet. It doesn’t feel rushed, or heated, or rough. It feels like exploration; like discovery.

This time, they break apart at the sound of Dean’s boots clomping down the hall and his voice whistling something.

When Dean enters, Castiel is sitting back in his chair again, Sam’s hand intertwined with his and resting on his lap, and both of them have blushes creeping up their necks and coating their faces.

Dean’s face twists into a knowing smirk, but he doesn’t say anything as he tosses Sam’s bag onto the bed.

Sam’s hand leaves Castiel’s a moment later. Castiel would miss it, he thinks, except that he’s pretty sure he’ll be able to hold Sam’s hand as many times as he likes from now on.

As they’re walking out of the hospital, Sam a touch gingerly from his healing ribs, he reaches for Castiel’s hand again, lacing their fingers.

Dean rolls his eyes when he sees them. “Man, the _both_ of you got it bad.”

Sam blushes, but Castiel laughs. He thinks he gets what Dean means now.


	19. XIX.

Dean stays with them for a week after Sam and Castiel are released from the hospital. The first thing he does when they reach Sam’s apartment is start an argument about where they’ll all be sleeping.

“I’ll just sleep on the couch,” he insists. “You guys take the bed.”

Sam’s ears tint pink, and he looks to Castiel with wide eyes. Castiel shakes his head. 

‘If you wanted to, we could share,’ Sam signs to him. ‘But I don’t know that we’re ready for sharing a bed yet, and I don’t want to pressure you.’

‘I would prefer to remain on the couch,’ Castiel signs back, hands quick. ‘I do not think we’re ready for that, either.’

Dean’s making a confused face, one eyebrow lifted while he stares at Sam and Castiel’s hands moving. 

“Nope,” Sam says to his brother, “Cas is gonna stay on the couch. You can sleep in a sleeping bag or share my bed with me.”

“Hold on,” Dean says. “What...when did you learn sign language?”

Sam blinks at him. “It was an elective. I like languages. Cas and I like speaking sign language sometimes, don’t make it weird.”

“No, that’s fine, I don’t care about that,” Dean says exasperatedly. “I just don’t remember you knowing it this well before you came to Stanford, that’s all. Guess it’s just another thing that changed.”

Sam and Dean just look at each other for a long moment. There’s tension seeping into the room, settling into Sam’s shoulders and making them rigid. Castiel doesn’t know what has gone wrong, but he knows this is probably a private conversation he should no longer be privy to.

“Can we not have this discussion again?” Sam says flatly. “I get it. You’re still mad that I came to Stanford, and you’re still mad that I don’t talk to you as much.”

“Three years, Sam,” Dean shoots back, voice quiet, but frustrated. “You let your boyfriend kick me out of here when I needed your help, and I don’t hear from you for three years until this guy comes in and all of a sudden you’re calling me left and right. You’re supposed to be fucking around getting wasted on campus, or burying your nose in your books, or whatever, and instead you ask me to drive out here to pick you up from a goddamn _circus_ in the middle of the night, looking like you’ve gone ten rounds with the Hookman, and to top it all off, your buddy here doesn’t even seem to know what a _hospital_ is.”

Sam’s jaw tenses. He releases a very measured breath through his nose. “I explained this all to you already.”

Dean scoffs. “No, you didn’t. You told me everything was under control and not to worry about it. That’s not an explanation.”

This time, the brothers just glare at each other.

Castiel is fairly sure he should have left the room already, but there aren’t many places to go in Sam’s apartment to begin with. He clears his throat, and the Winchesters turn to glare at him in tandem.

“I can explain,” he offers quietly. 

Sam shakes his head. “No, Cas, you don’t have to. You don’t owe Dean anything.”

Dean scowls. If Castiel is honest, it is not a very becoming look on him.

“I was an angel, Dean,” Castiel says next. “I was imprisoned in the circus, and your brother broke me out. We went back that night to try to get my wings back, so that I could return to Heaven. It is...it is my fault that Sam was there.”

Sam makes a sputtering noise. “It was _not_ your fault that I was there. I _chose_ to go with you.”

Dean looks back and forth between them, like he’s not sure what he’s hearing is completely true. “You...did you say you’re an _angel_? Like a harp, toga-wearing, head in the clouds angel?”

It’s Castiel’s turn to scowl. “That is an offensive and false depiction of angelkind, Dean. But yes, you heard correctly. I was an angel of the Lord. Now I am nothing but an ordinary man.”

Dean takes that in with wide eyes. He’s quiet for a moment. “Well...why Sam? Why ask him to help you?”

“Dean,” Sam warns.

Dean waves him away. “If you were an angel, why not just help yourself? Why drag a college kid into your mess?”

It’s Castiel’s turn to stare. He glances at Sam, and then back to Dean, and then down at the floor and their feet. “I…”

Sam cuts him off, though. “Take that back, Dean.”

“You’re a _kid_ ,” Dean argues. “He had no right-”

Sam’s face goes stony. “Enough. Don’t talk to him like that. I chose to help him, and Cas didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t you _dare_ put the blame on him for this.”

The room is dead silent for a long moment. Sam and Dean seem to be equally seething, and Castiel is tempted to go outside to get away from this.

Sam huffs after another beat. “I’m going for a drive. Cas, you can come if you want.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Dean bites. “You still have a concussion, you’re not driving anywhere.”

Sam takes a deep breath that is clearly forced. “We’ll take a bus. Cas, you coming?”

Castiel is the first one out the door.

* * *

The bus ride is quiet. Castiel is busy taking in the experience of public transportation, and Sam is clearly still angry. They don’t speak, and Sam fidgets endlessly, bouncing his knees and fidgeting with his sleeves.

Their first stop is a coffee shop. Sam is still quiet, and even though he doesn’t seem to be outwardly seething anymore, it’s still obvious to Castiel that he’s unhappy. 

But Sam buys them drinks with an even, polite voice, and he’s as gentle as ever when he hands over Castiel’s coffee and leads them back out to the sidewalk.

By the time they reach their second stop, a store called Goodwill, Sam seems to be a little more himself again, smiling easily when he holds the door open for Castiel. The tension seems to have finally melted out of the set of his jaw and shoulders, and he feels more like the easygoing Sam that Castiel is accustomed to.

“Alright, Cas,” Sam says, turning to him. “As much as I don’t mind you borrowing my clothes, I think it’s probably time we start a wardrobe of your own.”

Castiel agrees. They spend the rest of the afternoon going in and out of different shops, collecting shirts and pants and socks and jackets. 

They’re on their way back to the bus stop, and it’s just starting to get dark outside, when Castiel catches sight of something in a store window and slows to a stop on the sidewalk. Sam must feel the tug on his hand when Castiel stops, and follows his line of sight, tilting his head. 

“Didn’t think of you as a trench coat guy,” Sam says. “But now that I see it, I think it fits.”

“I like it,” Castiel says. 

Sam smiles at him, and nods toward the store entrance. “Come on.”

They enter the store, and Sam brings Castiel over to a worker to ask about the coat in the window.

The worker pulls it off the mannequin for Castiel to try on, and when he slips it over his shoulders and looks into the mirror, both his reaction and Sam’s are encouraging.

Sam’s eyes go wide. His ears and cheeks flush red. “Wow. That uh...that looks really good, Cas.”

Castiel smiles into the mirror. The effect of the coat on him is slightly ruined by the fact that he’s wearing an old shirt of Sam’s that’s far too big on him, and jeans that are too baggy. A black trench coat probably looks better over fancier clothes, or at least clothes that fit, but Castiel feels very good in it anyway.

Of course that means he ends up taking it home.

* * *

When they get back to Sam’s apartment, crashing through the door with shopping bags on both of their arms, there’s music playing, and the good smells coming from the kitchen make both of their stomachs growl.

“Hey,” Dean says, smiling sheepishly at them. “I didn’t know when you guys would be back, but I wanted to make dinner. Consider it part of my apology.”

Sam puts his bags down on the couch, and then glances between Castiel and Dean.

Castiel puts his bags down as well. He doesn’t say anything, but he does give his full attention to Dean.

“I shouldn’t have said the things I did,” Dean continues. “I was out of line. I’m sorry.”

Castiel nods. “Thank you. Apology accepted.”

Dean nods back, then claps his hands together. “Alright. Let’s eat!”

Even if Castiel isn’t quite sure what to think of him, Dean Winchester is admittedly a skilled cook. Castiel digs into the burgers he made with gusto, feeling more than content now to let things be behind them now.

Dean does stay in Sam’s room with him. Before they go, though, Sam presses a tentative kiss to Castiel’s forehead, and a small one to his lips, and then pads down the hallway to his room, a big smile on his face.

The last thing Castiel hears before he falls asleep is Dean and Sam bickering over who’s hogging the blankets.

* * *

Dean leaves on Saturday, but first he goes on a grocery run with Sam in the morning. Castiel snuggles further into the couch and channel surfs; he has quickly discovered that he is not a morning person.

When Sam and Dean get back, Castiel pulls his attention away from the tv to help put groceries away. When that’s done, Dean makes a noise like he’s forgotten something, and plucks an envelope off of the counter.

He hands it to Castiel. “We went to pick up Sam’s car, and this was under the windshield wipers.”

Castiel turns to Sam, alarmed, but Sam doesn’t look worried. “I opened it,” he says. “I didn’t want to go through your mail, or anything, but I made sure it wasn’t anything bad.”

Castiel nods, and opens the square envelope.

There’s a postcard inside, of the Grand Canyon, if Castiel isn’t mistaken.

Sam and Dean are bickering again. The sound of their voices gets drowned out as Castiel begins to read.

_Castiel,_

_I hope this is the right car. I feel like I remember seeing your friend in it before. Anyway, I wanted to thank you. I don’t know if you knew what killing Crowley would do for the rest of us circus folk, so I figured I would let you know._

_That and maybe I miss our conversations. Anyhoo. You set all of us free, Cassie. Crowley had contracts over each of our heads keeping us tethered to the circus--and I mean literally tethered. We all lived in our tents because we couldn’t physically leave the grounds._

_I can’t say what everyone else signed the contract for, but in my case, Crowley promised to save my brother for me. I was desperate and told him I would do anything he needed in return, which ended up meaning I was stuck on the grounds. All those stories I told you? The girls I was with, the fun I had? Those were old memories of my time before the circus._

_It feels like nothing compared to what you went through. I am so sorry you had to suffer for so long, and that I wasn’t able to help you more. I’m forever grateful to that Sam kid for getting you out._

_You set everyone free again. Myself, Meg, Pamela, Rowena. I’m keeping in touch with them. They’re all starting to catch up on the things they’ve missed these past years, and so am I._

_I’m leaving you with my phone number so that we can stay in touch. I know maybe this is a weird thing to say, but you’re like a brother to me._

_Thank you. Please keep in touch._

_Love,_

_Gabriel_

Castiel ends up staring down at the postcard without feeling like he’s even really seeing it. He can hear Gabriel’s voice, telling him tall tales of liquor and ladies, and Meg with her dry humor, and Rowena’s regal nature, and Pamela’s power.

He pulls in a shuddering breath. Everyone was a captive of the circus. They were all caged as much as Castiel and Samandriel.

And Castiel apparently freed them all.

He still doesn’t look up even when he hears Sam crouch in front of him.

“Hey,” Sam says quietly. “Cas? You okay?”

Castiel nods, slowly, and finally looks up from Gabriel’s postcard. There are tears in his eyes. There’s a serious but proud look on Sam’s face. 

“I...I didn’t know Crowley was keeping all of us there like that,” he whispers.

“I don’t think there was a way for you to know,” Sam offers. “Not without being told, anyway.”

“Gabriel’s free,” Castiel says hoarsely. “Meg, Rowena, Pamela...all of my friends, they’re free.”

Sam nods. “You helped everybody, Cas. Nobody has to suffer in that circus ever again because of you.”

Castiel takes a deep breath. He carefully slips Gabriel’s postcard back into its envelope and sets it onto the coffee table. Then he cradles Sam’s face in both of his hands and admires him.

The wound on Sam’s face is starting to scar. Castiel knows Sam is slightly worried it will make him ugly, but he could never be ugly to Castiel. 

And Sam’s eyes...those kaleidoscope eyes captivate Castiel every time. He can’t name the color that they are, but he knows without a doubt that whatever color it is, it’s his favorite.

“You’re beautiful,” Castiel breathes. 

Sam’s face goes warm and red under his fingertips. “So are you.”

Well, now Castiel has no choice other than to kiss him, so he does. They don’t break apart until Dean’s footsteps sound from the hallway, and he clears his throat.

Sam leans into Castiel’s hands before he pulls away. He stands up, and goes to his brother, all slouched with his hands in his pockets, head down.

Even if they didn’t get along the whole time, Castiel can tell that Sam’s sorry to see Dean go.

By the look on Dean’s face and the way he can’t seem to figure out what to do with his hands, Castiel figures the feeling is reciprocated.

Dean pulls Sam into a hug practically without even looking at him. Sam buries his face in his brother’s shoulder, and they whisper things back and forth for a moment, before Sam pulls back.

Castiel is expecting a verbal goodbye, of course, so when Dean approaches the couch with a, “Get up so I can hug you,” Castiel is surprised.

He stands, though, and allows Dean to pull him into a short, tight embrace.

“You don’t let Sammy boss you around too much, you hear?” Dean tells him. “You call me and I’ll straighten him out if he does. You need any help kickin’ someone’s ass, and I’m only a phone call away then, too.”

Castiel knows then that he and Dean are equals. Whatever gripe Dean had expressed with Castiel’s history and his involvement with Sam, he’s clearly working past it.

He nods. “Of course. And you call me if you need anyone that could do with a smiting. A threat of one, of course.”

“Of course,” Dean says, grinning crookedly. 

They clap each other on the shoulder, only a little awkward, and then Dean turns back to Sam. “Walk me out?”

Sam nods, giving Castiel a slightly bummed look before he follows Dean out of the apartment. 

Castiel cleans up some of their dishes while Sam is outside. He’s admiring the photo of the Grand Canyon on the back of Gabriel’s postcard when Sam returns, surreptitiously wiping at the skin under his eyes.

Castiel just offers him a freshly-made mug of coffee, and Sam offers him a watery smile in return.

“He’s an ass, but I miss him when he’s gone,” he explains as he spreads his textbooks across the kitchen table.

Castiel thinks someday, he’ll know what it’s like to have a brother. Although maybe he already does.

The day passes slowly, mundanely. Sam works steadily through the hours, attempting to catch up on the work that he’s missed these past couple of weeks. Apparently, his professors have been really understanding in extending his deadlines, but he’s still swamped with work.

Castiel leaves him to it, returning to the tv. Every once in a while, he rereads Gabriel’s postcard, or makes Sam a cup of tea. 

It’s late at night when Sam finally stops. He drops onto the couch next to Castiel and casually rests his head on Castiel’s shoulder.

They’ve slowly gotten closer to each other. The farthest it seems to go at this point is a few small kisses, palms on faces or heads on shoulders. Castiel adores it.

Both of them are quiet for a while, paying attention to whatever trashy reality show is on this late at night, and Castiel thinks they might fall asleep like this when the show cuts to a commercial and Sam speaks.

“What are we?”

“Humans.”

Sam snorts. “I know that. I meant like...what are _we_. You and me. This.”

“We are you and me,” Castiel says. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Sam hums, thinking. “Just...I don’t want to rush, here. We go as slow or as fast as you want. And we don’t have to label it right now, either, I was just wondering...well…”

Castiel waits for him to finish, but Sam never does. He twists his head to try to look Sam in the eyes. “What?”

Sam’s ears are pink. He looks very, very shy, which is an oddly endearing look on such a large man. “Can I call you my boyfriend? I mean, are we together, now? Is that something you’d want with me?”

Castiel thinks of Sam’s kisses. He thinks of Sam’s bedhead and his ratty pajamas and the way his hands are so sure of themselves when he signs. He thinks of his bright laugh, and his gorgeous eyes, and Sam’s silhouette illuminated by moonlight and rain. He thinks of long conversations, and planning, and the crystalline worry on Sam’s face when he was told Castiel was falling. Castiel thinks of Sam Winchester, and loves him.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I would like that with you very much.”

Sam’s face lights up. He lifts his head from Castiel’s shoulder so that he can rest a hand on the back of Castiel’s neck and pull him into a kiss.

It feels like coming home. It _is_ coming home. Castiel may not have been able to go back to Heaven, but he has found paradise here.

Sam Winchester is his paradise. And that is more than enough for him.


	20. EPILOGUE

**Four years later…**

Sam almost can’t believe that this day is here. After working toward it for eight years, it feels almost surreal.

He’s still expecting to wake up from a dream and find that it’s just another day with Cas, not his graduation from Stanford Law.

He’s pinched himself several times this morning, but he’s still here and still awake, standing in front of their bedroom mirror while Cas fusses with his tie.

“And you tease me for how I do my tie,” Cas mutters. “How did you even do this? It’s messed up several different ways.”

Sam chuckles. “Sorry. Nervous hands.”

Cas’s hands pause what they’re doing, trying to get Sam’s tie to release its tangled chokehold. He looks up, the blue eyes that Sam adores staring into his, and leans to kiss Sam’s nose.

“It’s graduation,” Cas says, smiling. “You’re all done after this. And you should be very proud of yourself. Summa cum laude and top of your class.”

Sam pulls in a deep breath. “Yeah, and I have to give a speech. I’m not good at big speeches, Cas.”

Cas shakes his head, a wry grin appearing on his face. “Says the lawyer. You’ll do great, bee.”

Sam smiles reflexively at the nickname. It came slowly, like most things for them did, but once Cas decided he wanted to call Sam that, he never stopped.

Sam still remembers how Cas said it the first time. It had been in Sam’s room, while they were laying together in a content silence, when Cas had hummed and started running through a list of nicknames.

Sam had frozen. They were moving so slowly--Cas had only ever slept in his bed with him twice by then, and it had been a full two months after they got together--and he was surprised to hear Cas’s voice using nicknames. He loved it. He loved everything Cas said.

He’ll never be able to get enough of Cas’s voice. Ever since he heard it the first time, he’s been in love with it.

“What?” Cas says, pulling Sam out of his head. “You’re looking at me the way Dean looks at pie.”

“I love you,” Sam says, abruptly. It bursts out of him, the same way it always does, with the same excitement and enthusiasm that beats in his heart for Cas all day long. 

“I love you, too,” Cas says easily. “And since I think you may have been daydreaming instead of listening, I will repeat myself and tell you that you will do amazing with your speech, and Dean and I will be very proud of you.”

“Thanks, Cas,” Sam says softly, and then leans down to capture his boyfriend’s mouth in a kiss. 

Cas humors him for a moment before he pulls away, tapping at Sam’s chest. “I do, however, need to fix this tie of yours before we’re late.”

Sam grins, looking past Cas and into the mirror on their wall. It’s still surprising how much he’s changed in the four years they’ve been together--how much they both have. Sam is older. He’s lost the puppy fat on his face, and his hair is swept back now, instead of hanging into his face. He’s filled out more, less gangly and awkward. The only thing that connects him to that twenty-two-year-old kid is the scar on his face.

It looks the same as it has for years, now. Sam has long since got used to it, and he’s more than used to people staring at it, whispering, outright asking him how he got it. Most days, it doesn’t bother him. But there are days Sam hates looking in the mirror, so Cas tucks a towel over it and spends extra time showing Sam how much he loves him and every imperfection in his body.

Cas gets it. There are days Sam has to cover the mirrors, too, days where Sam massages the aching scar tissue in Cas’s back until his hands are sore and cramping. In the beginning, there were long nights where Cas would wake weeping, mourning his wings, or shaking with memories of Crowley. In the beginning, they both just downed a lot of coffee, and Sam spent a lot of time researching the best cure for nightmares.

Things are better, now. Easier. They both still wake shaking from dreams of the circus, occasionally, but it’s not every night anymore. Cas will allow Sam to help him through it instead of locking himself in the bathroom and sitting on the floor of the shower. 

And Cas is different, too. Older. More comfortable in his human skin. He speaks out loud more than he uses sign language, now, though he and Sam still speak in it sometimes. Most of the time it’s to poke fun at Dean when he visits and his back is turned. Dean’s learned enough sign language from the two of them that they can’t do it while he’s looking anymore.

Cas is vibrant. Radiant. He has a passion for helping people that amazes Sam. Everything about Castiel amazes Sam, of course. He’s been in love with the man for a little more than four years.

He loves Cas with every fiber of his being. It’s why today, he’s less nervous about graduation than he is the graduation dinner afterward.

The ring box in his pocket feels awful heavy as he and Cas walk out to meet Dean in the Impala...


End file.
